The Baseball Bat Battalion 03: Innocent
by SCS12
Summary: Stiles is kicked out by Derek and is left with an unknown child. Laura leaves town. To top it all off, vampires want Stiles dead. While Derek elects to get inebriated and Argent tries to hold the pack together, Stiles flees to Europe in search of the Templars. Only they know enough to explain the unnamed child left on his doorstep, but they may be worse than the vampires.
1. Chapter 1

**Blameless by Gail Carriger AU.**

* * *

Stiles spent the night at the police station. He had been shot at. _Shot at_. Not that he wasn't used to death threats, but he had never been shot at. His father was the police commissioner and he was married to the area's Alpha werewolf who was also a federal agent. People didn't _shoot_ at him. Even if said husband was pissed at him for reasons Stiles couldn't fathom.

Or well, the reasons had something to do with the small child sitting next to him at the police station. It was a young boy with dark hair, nearly black, and starling green eyes. Stiles would almost say he looked like Derek, except the boy's features were softer somehow. Stiles had asked him name, but the boy said he didn't have one.

Stiles had left his home with the child, or more accurately, been thrown out of it, when Derek had started snarling at him and the boy. Stiles was fairly certain Derek had been insinuating that Stiles had slept with his sister and this boy was the result. Stiles wasn't even aware that Derek had a sister that was alive, nor had he slept with anyone since long before dating Derek, which meant there was no way the two year old by his side could be his child. Hell, he'd been married to Derek for over a year and they'd been together for two years before that. It had been ages since he'd been with someone besides Derek.

Stiles got a text from Laura Hale. "Come quickly. I need to speak to you immediately." Stiles tried to answer that he was currently sitting in the police station and might be awhile, but Laura never replied.

Instead, Stiles opened the envelope that Derek's Beta, Chris Argent, had shoved in his hand when Stiles had arrived back at Newark Castle and its surprise toddler.

_Stiles,_

_I never got a chance to apologize for all of that business with Blake. I've been following your research since then and it is intriguing. I look forward to more in the future. I have been helping BUR take down some of the more radical branches of the Order of Oborous. That was the scientific society Blake belonged to. I'm not sure if you were ever made aware of that. The order itself is fine, but there have been offshoots that are using more and more illegal activity to study supernaturals. One I'm working with now was keeping this boy. I snuck a look at his files and it listed "Z.S. – effervescent" as the father and "L.H. – vampire" as the mother. You are the only preternatural I've heard of, so I figured he must be yours. Maybe you know the mother? I'm still undercover, so I had to sneak him away, but I left him under the care of Agent Chris Argent with BUR. I didn't explain anything, but just asked him to give you this note. I didn't want to create any problems between you and Agent Hale. I wasn't sure what else to do, but after seeing what some of these offshoots were willing to do, I couldn't leave a child there. I know he will be safe with you as a father._

_Regards,_

_Danny M._

Stiles stared at the letter for a long while. Not that he could trust the files or Danny's report of them, necessarily, but there could be no doubt the effervescent listed was him. His first name was not commonly known and how many other preternaturals could have the initials Z.S., particularly since Stiles was the only effervescent in the country? And Blake and her men had kept both he and Laura unconscious for a long while when they had been kidnapped over three years ago. There was no telling what they had done to Stiles at that time.

And, oh god, _Laura_, thought Stiles. L.H.? Could it be?

Stiles had spent the better part of the past three years trying to determine if there was any connection between Derek and Laura other than a shared last name. They shared some similar looks, but other than that, did not seem to interact outside of official business.

But then, Stiles thought, Laura did look an awful lot like Cora, the only relative of Derek's that Stiles knew. Was this why Derek thought Stiles had slept with his sister? Because _Laura_ was his sister? If anyone could turn a vampire mortal, it would be Stiles. Although how could anyone keep Laura mortal long enough for her to be pregnant, give birth, and _hide_ it, Stiles wondered. Especially without Derek noticing. And how could this child be his and Laura's? They'd never slept together. They'd never even _wanted_ to sleep together.

Stiles had so many questions and nobody to answer them.

He had tried calling Derek's phone twice with no answer. He called Argent, but was told very sharply, "This is not the time, Stiles," and was hung up on. Derek was not going to listen to him, it seemed. Stiles was torn between hurt and anger.

Stiles's father finally came up to the front of the station.

"They're letting you go for now. They've got your statement and they want to know if you find out anything else. Right now, they're treating it as either a threat to me or Derek. They'll be passing along any information to BUR."

Stiles nodded sullenly. Of course they would. Maybe Derek would care that someone was trying to kill him. Maybe.

"Son, come stay with me tonight. Bring the boy. I don't know what you've gotten yourself into, but you know I'm always here."

Stiles smiled slightly at his dad. It wasn't like he had anywhere else to go.

John Stilinski. "I'm calling Finstock tomorrow, too. Especially if Derek isn't going to put any BUR agents on you. I don't want you alone."

"What if he's busy? Going to keep me on house arrest?" Stiles had devolved into a petulant teenager, he was pretty sure. Something about being ordered around by his father did that to him.

John rolled his eyes. "He's never busy. When you were younger someone threatened me. They said they'd take you to get to me. Finstock told me he promised your mother he'd always protect you and he'd come play bodyguard whenever I needed it."

"Is that the two weeks he was over when I was 8? He made me watch Independence Day nonstop. I still have the speech memorized."

John chuckled. "Yea. Glad he didn't let on what was actually happening, at any rate. Now I can't seem to keep you out of any messes. Hell, half the time you're the one making them."

They walked to John's car. Stiles's was being kept for evidence, as it had a bullet hole through the front windshield. They rode back to Stiles's father's place in silence.

When they arrived, Finstock was already on the porch.

"I thought you were going to call him tomorrow," Stiles said accusingly.

"I was," John replied.

"Stilinski! Get the boy inside, quickly!" Finstock's frantic voice sounded loud in the quiet neighborhood. He wasn't looking at Stiles though. He was looking at the boy that accompanied him.

Finstock shuffled the boy into the house, scanning the street for anyone who wasn't supposed to be there.

"That attempt wasn't on you, Stiles. They were trying for the boy."

"What?" Stiles was shocked. Who would want to kill a two year old? "Why?"

Finstock shrugged, but didn't say anything. John gave him a look, but didn't ask any anything. He shook his head at Stiles when he made to ask more questions.

"Not right now, Stiles."

Stiles's father _never_ kept secrets from him. He couldn't fathom why he was keeping them about threats to a child – a child that might possibly be Stiles's _son_ (although he still wasn't too sure about that – mostly because he couldn't figure out how), but he let it go. Neither his dad nor Finstock looked like they were going to give on the subject that night.

As Stiles was settling in to sleep, he realized he never went to Laura's after she texted. He wondered if whatever she needed him for had anything to do with the boy. He decided to go see her first thing in the morning.

The next morning, though, he arrived at Laura's to find it empty. Not just empty, but abandonded.


	2. Chapter 2

Laura Hale's house was located in one of the nicer parts of Manhattan – a part that had probably become more upscale because it was fortunate enough to host said town house. Laura was a society darling, sometimes to the exclusion of all other things.

No one responded to Stiles's knock on her door, or to his ring of the doorbell, but the front door had been left unlocked. Stiles cautiously went inside, grasping his baseball bat, which he was refusing to leave the house without.

"Hello? Anyone home?"

The place was deserted. Not only was there no Laura, but there was no Scott, nor any other drone. Laura's house usually played host to a number of young men and a few young women, as well as piles of clothes and accessories left about the rooms. Most of the drones usually had a glass of some sort of champagne in hand and were generally chattering or laughing loudly. Even in the morning, _someone_ should be around. The silence was all the more noticeable in comparison.

Stiles slowly made his way through the empty rooms. All he found was evidence of departure.

The only living thing on the premises, aside from Stiles, seemed to be the resident cat. Currently, the animal law sprawled across a gold and cream sofa, playing lazily with a tasseled pillow. Cats, as a general rule, were the only creatures that tolerated vampires. Most other animals had what scientists termed a well-developed prey response behavior pattern. Felines, apparently, did not consider themselves prey. This one probably could have tolerated a pack of werewolves.

Stiles heard a noise outside the room.

* * *

Derek Hale was drunk.

He was not drunk in the halfhearted manner of most supernatural creatures, where twelve beers finally turned the world slightly fuzzy. No, Derek was fall down, slurred speech, couldn't pass a breathalyzer if he tried, drunk.

It took an enormous amount of alcohol to get a werewolf that inebriated. And, reflected Chris Argent as he steered his Alpha around the side of an inconvenient shed, it was almost as miraculous a feat to attain such quantities as it was to ingest them. How had Derek done it? Not only that, how had he managed to acquire said booze so consistently over the past two days without visiting New York or tapping into Newark Castle's supply? _Really_, thought the Beta in annoyance, _such powers could almost be thought supernatural_.

Derek lurched heavily. The meat of his left shoulder and upper arm crashed into the shed. The entire building swayed on its foundation.

"Pardon," apologized the Alpha with a small hiccough, "didn't see you there."

"Dammit, Derek," said Chris in extreme annoyance, "how did you manage to get so drunk?"

"Not drunk," insisted Derek, throwing one substantial arm across his Beta's shoulders and leaning heavily upon it. "Jush a tiny little bith tipshy."

Derek pitched forward again and his grip on his Beta was the only thing that managed to keep him upright. "Whoa! Watch that ground there, would ya? Tricky, tricky. Jumps righth up ath ya."

"Where did you get the alcohol?" Argent asked again as he tried valiantly to get Derek back on track across the wide lawn of Newark's extensive grounds. It was like trying to steer a steamboat through a tub of syrup. A normal human might have buckled, but thankfully Argent had supernatural strength to call on.

"And how did you get all the way out here? I'm pretty sure I tucked you into bed before leaving your room last night." Argent spoke clearly and precisely, not entirely sure how much was getting through to Derek.

Derek's head bobbed slightly as he attempted to listen.

"Went for a run. Need to run. Need to – _hic_ – needed to find a pool."

"A pool?" Argent asked, incredulously.

"No pool. Stupid pool." Derek tripped over a bush.

"Well, do you feel any better?"

Derek drew himself upright. Despite his straight back, the Alpha managed to sway side to side.

"Do I," he enunciated very carefully, "_look_ like I feel any better?"

Argent had nothing to say in response to that.

"Exactly!" Derek made a wide and flailing gesture. Argent thought he rather looked like Stiles when he was took excited about something.

"He is wedged" – Derek pointed two fingers at his head – "here." Then he rammed them at his chest. "And here. Can't shake him. Can't get rid of him."

Derek looked at his Beta with wide, soulful eyes. "Why'd he have to go and do a thing like that?"

"I don't think he did." Argent had been meaning to have this out with his Alpha for some time. He had simply hoped the discussion would occur during one of Derek's rare moments of sobriety.

"Why did he lie about it?"

"I don't think he was lying." Argent stood his ground. A Beta's main function within a pack was to support his Alpha in all things – publicly, and to question his as much as possible-privately.

Derek cleared his throat. "Chris, this may come as a shock, but I _am_ a werewolf."

"Yes."

"Two hundred and one years of age."

"Yes."

"I have a very keen sense of smell."

"I am aware."

"I could tell whose child the kid belonged to. Even if he hadn't been with them in years. I know the parents well enough that I'd always been able to pick a child of either of those parents out in a crowd. But both of them? There's no way I'm wrong."

Argent nodded. "But, Derek, that child was maybe two at most. You've been with Stiles for longer than that. It's not like he could have been touching her the whole time. How could he have gotten her pregnant then kept her human long enough to have a baby?"

"Well, he certainly figured out a way, didn't he?"

They finally made it to the castle and Derek was momentarily distracted by the task of trying to climb steps.

"You know," continued the Alpha in outraged hurt. "I groveled for him. Me!" He glared at Argent. "And you told me to!"

Argent sighed in exasperation. If he could simply get Derek to sober up, he might be able to talk some sense into him. The Alpha was notoriously emotional and heavy-handed in these matters, prone to flying off the handle, but he could usually be brought around to reason eventually.

Argent knew Stiles's character. He might be capable of betraying his husband, but it would only be to protect Derek in some way. And if he had done so, Stiles would admit it openly. Thus, logic dictated that he was telling the truth. However this child was conceived, it was not by Stiles's doing. Even Derek, pigheaded and hurt, could be convinced of this line of reasoning eventually. After all, he could not possibly _want_ to believe Stiles capable of infidelity. At this point he was simply wallowing.

"Don't you think it's about time you sobered up?"

"Nope."

They made their way inside Newark Castle, which was no castle at all but more a manor with delusions of dignity. Argent was grateful to be out of the sun. He was old enough and strong enough not to be bothered by direct sunlight for short lengths of time, but that didn't mean he enjoyed it.

"So where _are_ you acquiring the alcohol?"

Before he could answer, a tall blond rounded the corner. "Is he soused again?"

"If you mean, 'is he drunk still?' then, yes."

"Where is he getting it?"

"Do you think I haven't tried to figure that out? Make yourself useful."

Major Jackson Whittemore reluctantly helped his pack leader and steered him to the central staircase, up several floors and to his bedroom. They managed with only three casualties: Derek's dignity (which hadn't very far to fall at that point), Jackson's elbow (which met a mahogany bookcase), and an innocent vase (which died so that Derek could lurch with exaggeration).

The two werewolves managed, mostly through brute force, to get Derek into his bed. Once there, he flopped facedown and almost immediately began snoring.

"Something needs to be done. What if we have a challenger or a bid for metamorphosis? We should be getting more now that he has successfully changed a female into a werewolf. You can't keep Cora a secret in California forever." Jackson's tone was full of both pride and annoyance. "Claviger petitions have already escalated. Our Alpha should be handling those, not spending his days falling down drunk."

"I can hold the challengers off," said Argent. Chris Argent may not be as large, nor as overtly masculine as most werewolves, but he had earned the right to be Beta in one of the country's strongest packs. Earned it so many times over and in so many ways that few questioned his right anymore.

"But you have no Anubis Form. You cannot cover for our Alpha in every way."

"Mind your Gamma responsibilities and let me see to the rest."

Jackson gave both Derek and Argent disgusted looks and left the room.

Argent intended to do the same, but he heard a whispered, "Chris," come from the bed. He made his way to the side.

"Yes, Derek?"

"If" – the Alpha swallowed nervously – "if I _am_ wrong, and I'm not saying I am, but if I am, well, I'll have to grovel again, won't I?"

"I'm not convinced groveling will be quite sufficient.

"Shit."

"That is the least of it. I think he is in a lot of danger."

But Derek had already gone back to sleep.

* * *

Stiles's baseball bat had been designed a prodigious expense, with a lot of attention to detail, and he still wasn't sure of everything it did. Despite its many advanced attributes, though, Stiles mostly used it through brute force applied to an opponent's head.

Thus, he left Laura's cat and dashed to the side of the door, bat at the ready. Every time he was in this room, something bad seemed to happen.

Curly hair, with attached head, peeked into the room, and was soon followed by a young man. Stiles was ready to swing.

"Who are you?"

The young man was wary. He cleared his throat. "Isaac. Isaac Lahey."

Stiles nodded and lowered the bat slightly.

"Where is everyone?"

"Laura left me behind to tell you something. A sort of secret message." He winked conspiratorially and then seemed to think better of the flirtation when the bat was raised again. "I think it is in code."

Stiles looked at him expectantly.

"Check the cat."

"That was all she had to say to me?" Stiles asked.

The young man shrugged. "Guess so."

"But where are they all?"

"Can't say. It's not safe."

Stiles's confusion turned to worry. "Not safe for whom? You, me, or Laura?"

Isaac paused. "Don't worry. It'll be alright. Laura will see to it. She always does."

When he left, Stiles returned to the cat. The only thing odd about the cat was the metal collar around her neck. Stiles unclipped it and realized a small thin roll of paper had been attached. He unrolled it.

He looked it for a moment and then headed back out towards his car.


	3. Chapter 3

Upon entering Le Soulier d'Or, Chris Argent thought the owner was looking a little tired and substantially older than when he'd seen her last. This was peculiar, as on all their previous encounters, the lady inventor had possessed an air of agelessness.

Lydia glanced up from the emerald-green stiletto she was holding. "He wanted to see you as well? Smart of him."

The store was devoid of customers despite the excellent selection of shoes and the wistful glances of customers walking by the shop outside. This was probably due to the small sign on the door indicating it was closed.

Argent nodded. "He called a few moments ago. He has his moments."

"And you brought a bodyguard? I didn't realize you needed one." Lydia's perfectly tended eyebrows arched in surprise.

Finstock, having followed Argent into the store, glared.

"I met him out on the street. I'm sure he's looking for Stiles. In any case, if we are going to discuss what I think we are going to discuss, he might be valuable. You know he knew Stiles's mother when she was young?"

Lydia looked surprised. "Really? I didn't." Lydia looked at Finstock with renewed interest.

Argent looked around, feeling uncomfortably exposed. "Should we go somewhere more private?" He would feel more relaxed in Lydia's laboratory.

Lydia put down her work. "Yes, Stiles will know where to find us."

Before she could get up, there was a knock at the door and then a bell jingled slightly as it was pushed open. A large black man entered the room with a blank expression, although his eyes darted around, taking in his surroundings and the people already in the shop.

"Boyd, of course." Argent was not surprised at this addition to Stiles's gathering.

Finstock nodded at Derek's former claviger. Then he slipped past him to shut the shop door and check to ensure the closed sign was visible.

"Hello, Chris. Stiles didn't say you'd be here. How's Derek?"

"He's been better." Argent sighed.

A humorless smile crossed Lydia's face. "Not taking the separation well, your Alpha? I am glad to hear it."

Argent sighed again. "He's been _drunk_."

"Really?" The inventor's interest was piqued. "I didn't know werewolves could become intoxicated."

"It takes considerable effort."

"What was he drinking?"

"Everclear. And a lot of it."

Lydia giggled. Finstock and Boyd exchanged glances and rolled their eyes.

Argent motioned towards the back and Lydia's secret door. "Let's go."

Lydia, taking the hint, made her way to the back of the shop. The hidden door led to an elevator, which took them underground.

Chris Argent sensed that there was something different about the place. He could not determine exactly what it was. He was familiar with the laboratory, having visited in order to acquire thing for the pack, for the FBI's Bureau of Unnatural Registry (BUR), and sometimes for his own use. Lydia was generally thought to be one of the better of the young inventors. She had a reputation for good, hard work and fair prices. All members of the Order of Orborous were notorious for eccentricities, but Lydia was not particularly peculiar. Her lab was everything Argent expected from an inventor of her character and reputation – large, messy, and interesting.

"Where is your son?" asked Argent, realizing that Liam was missing.

"Boarding school," said Lydia, dismissing the child with a wave of her hand. "He was becoming a liability, and then with that mess with Allison, school was the most logical choice. I anticipate he'll be expelled soon."

Argent nodded. Allison, Liam's biological mother, had been working undercover for a vampire hive when she fell to her death in California. Not that the information was common knowledge, but the hives were not above recrimination. Allison had failed her masters and Lydia had involved herself unnecessarily in the matter. It was probably safer for Liam to be out of town for now.

"Formerly Deaton must miss him."

Lydia laughed slightly. "Unlikely. He doesn't like children all that much. At least not children like Liam."

The ghost in question resided in Lydia lab and, until recently, had been responsible for Liam's education.

Argent suddenly realized that lab was very quiet, the usual hum missing. "Are you planning a trip?"

"Well, that depends on what Stiles wants us here for, doesn't it?"

Argent nodded.

Lydia changed the subject. Looking at the men in the room, she met each of their eyes one by one. "I take it we all agree, at the very least, that Stiles is not lying in that he did not cheat on Derek?"

One by one, each man nodded.

Argent spoke. "The child is definitely his, somehow. I don't know how, exactly. I don't think Stiles was lying. But I have spent enough time around him to know that one of that child's parents was Stiles."

Lydia nodded.

Finstock interjected. "I've known him his whole life. He's just like his mother. He's too loyal. He wouldn't betray Hale like that. If nothing else, he wouldn't lie about it."

Lydia nodded again.

So did Argent. "I agree. I'm not saying I know the answer as to how. I just know that someone else believes that this is possible. Several someones, in fact. And they are usually correct in these kinds of things."

"Who?"

"The vampires." All eyes turned to Argent. "Before he left for California, two vampires tried to kidnap Stiles. I think they were trying to interrogate him about the boy. After Stiles got the child back, someone shot at him. Finstock, I know you said you thought they were going for the boy. I think it was vampires."

Finstock grunted in agreement.

"This could be their worst fears realized. There is something different about this child. This is not just another preternatural like Stiles is. Derek thinks that the child belongs to Stiles and his sister. Do you know who Derek's sister is?"

Boyd and Lydia looked at Argent curiously, shaking their heads. Finstock looked as if he already knew.

"Only a few people know this. I'm not sure if Stiles even does, but he will need to after this. It cannot leave this room, though. It cannot become common knowledge. Do you understand?" Argent asked with ferocity and urgency.

Those in the room were beginning to understand, if they hadn't before, why Argent had become and remained Beta of one of the biggest packs on the planet. He would protect his Alpha – protect Derek – with everything he had. And he had the ability to back it up.

"Derek's sister is Laura Hale."


	4. Chapter 4

The assembled group looked at each other. Finally, Lydia spoke. "So that's why they want him. They're trying to get to the child of a preternatural and a vampire. If they can't find the child, they'll go for Stiles."

Argent nodded. "That is what I think."

"Well," Lydia continued. "We'll have to keep him safe."

Chris Argent looked at the ginger inventor with a cutting eye. "Why is Stiles involving you in this, Lydia?"

"He is my friend."

"That doesn't explain _your_ eagerness to be of assistance."

"You haven't had many friends, have you, Argent?"

The werewolf's upper lip curled. "Are you certain friendship is all you want from him?"

Lydia bristled slightly. "That is a low blow. I don't think it's your business to question my motives."

Argent reddened slightly. "I didn't intend to imply . . . I mean, I didn't mean . . ." He trailed off and then cleared his throat. "I planned to hint at your involvement with the Order of Orborous."

Lydia ran her fingers through her hair lightly. "Oh. The Order has no direct involvement that I know of. Although, I'm not very close with a lot of the offshoot groups. I mostly stick to the main body."

Argent did not miss the implication of that phrasing.

"So why are you such an eager friend?"

"I cannot deny a fascination with Stiles as a scientific curiosity, but my research tends to be more theoretical than biological."

"So I was close in my initial assessment?" Argent regarded Lydia with better understanding.

"My motives are not entirely pure, but are at least in Stiles's best interest."

Argent nodded. "For now." He paused and looked around. "We must convince him to leave Manhattan."

At which point Stiles walked into the room. "Oh, no convincing needed. That's why I asked you all here." He seemed a little over caffeinated and was flailing about a bit, but seemed otherwise alright. "It's about time I visited Europe, don't you think? I thought one or two of you might like to come with me."

Argent looked at Lydia. "I see you intend to go, Lydia." He was thinking about how the lab seemed to have already been shut down and put away.

Stiles grinned. "Great. I was hoping you would."

The inventor nodded. "I've already put some thought into possible routes." She shifted her attention back to the werewolf. "Do you think you could leave the pack for that long?"

"The pack is used to being split. We are one of the few who do so regularly. But no. I cannot leave right now. The situation is delicate."

Lydia tried to hold back a grin. "Obviously you cannot abandon Derek in his current…state."

"State? Oh, he's in a _state_? Good. He damn well better be. Asshole."

Argent felt like he might be betraying his Alpha somewhat but he couldn't help admitting, "He's practically inhaling everclear in an effort to say inebriated."

Stiles's smug expression immediately became alarmed.

"Don't worry," Argent tried to reassure him. "It can't seriously harm him. He's just very drunk and incapacitated in the meantime."

"Concerned?" Stiles looked away, pretending to mess with a latch on his briefcase. "Who's concerned?"

"He is just not acting like an Alpha. I just need to safeguard his interests in the pack."

Stiles nodded. "Of course. Lydia and I will be fine."

The redhead looked hopefully at Argent. "I don't suppose you would come look after the lab?"

The werewolf nodded his assent.

Boyd perked up as well. "I'm sure Erica wouldn't mind overseeing the shop."

Lydia looked horrified. "She's not very organized, is she?"

Stiles patted her arm. "Erica will be fine. That's the reason I invited Boyd here in the first place."

Lydia gave him an appraising look. "I guess it will be better if there is some semblance of normal business operations while I'm gone. It would be best if the vampires didn't know exactly who you're friends are."

"Vampires?" Stiles asked suddenly.

"Yes, we believe that they are who have been after you and the child."

Argent explained his theory to Stiles.

"So you believe me? You believe that I didn't cheat on Derek?"

Everyone in the room nodded.

"Funny that you should trust me more than my own husband." Stiles rubbed a hand down his face and sighed.

"He has never acted reasonably where you were concerned."

Stiles nodded, mouth set in a tight frown. "That's not an excuse."

"No, it's not," agreed Argent.

"And the only vampire likely to be on my side is Laura Hale and she's disappeared."

"She has?" Lydia and Argent asked at the same time.

Everyone in the room exchanged suspicious glances except Stiles. Even he didn't miss such suspicious behavior.

"What do you know?"

"You know how Derek said the child was yours and his sisters?" Argent asked quietly. Stiles nodded and Argent continued. "Laura Hale is his sister. He's never quite explained to me how it happened or even how they both ended up as opposing supernatural entities in the same area, but they were siblings when they were humans. And he thinks that child is Laura's in some way."

Stiles stared at the werewolf in shock.

"He threw me out of the house, because he thinks I somehow managed to cheat on him, have sex with his vampire sister and hold on to her for 9 months, literally never stop touching her, while she carried a baby and he didn't notice? Is he fucking serious?"

Stiles just sat, his head in his hands. "Is he fucking serious?" Stiles repeated. Nobody in the room seemed to know how to respond. Nobody had an answer and no one knew how to comfort Stiles in such a situation.

Finally Stiles straightened up and wiped his face. "Okay, to Europe, then."

Argent seemed much more able to respond to this. "I can employ BUR agents to protect you until the full moon, but once all the werewolves are out of commission, I can't trust the vampires to follow my orders first. Will I need someone on the child?"

Stiles shook his head. "He's being put in hiding. My father helped me with it and it will be done tonight."

Argent nodded.

"So where are we going?" Lydia asked with interest.

Stiles had thought about this. If he had to leave, he was going in pursuit of information. Only one country knew anything substantial about preternaturals.

"I hear Italy is lovely this time of year."


	5. Chapter 5

"Italy?"

"You'll be killed there," argued Argent.

"The religious fanatics – if you can call them religious – are there," added Boyd.

"The Templars." The last was from Finstock, and he whispered it. Stiles wasn't sure he'd ever heard Finstock whisper anything in his life.

"I think it's a great idea," said Stiles, expressionless.

Lydia looked at Stiles sympathetically. "You think the Templars can explain the child?"

"They must know _something_."

Lydia looked thoughtful, but didn't want to tempt Stiles with false hope. "They are warriors, not scientists. Although a few of them have dabbled with the Order, most of them steer clear. I'm not sure they can help you find what you _actually_ want."

"Oh, and what's that?"

"Derek."

Stiles glared at the redhead. He didn't want that asshole back. He simply wanted to prove him wrong.

"I think it is a bad idea," said Argent, before Stiles could continue. "You do not know these people. You will be in danger."

Stiles ignored him.

"I will come with you," said Finstock.

Neither Stiles nor Lydia objected.

"So Italy it is?"

"Yes. I had already had the idea, especially once I saw Laura had left. Then she left me this message on her cat." Stiles dug out the small paper and smoothed it out for Lydia and Argent to read.

_Leave New York_, it read, _And beware Italians who embroider_.

"Useful," was Lydia's only comment.

"Embroidery?" Argent asked. Stiles shrugged.

"I'm worried about her. Is it safe for her to be away from her house? I understand her being a rove detached from a hive, but I was under the impression that roves also became a part of a place. Tethered a little, like ghosts."

Argent rubbed the back of his neck thoughtfully. "I wouldn't worry too much. Roves have a larger roaming ability than hive-bound vampires. It takes considerable strength to break away from a queen in the first place and the older the rove, the more mobility. Have you seen Laura's BUR file?"

Stiles shrugged noncommittally. He wasn't above snooping through Derek's things, but he wasn't going to admit to it.

"It's large. We know about how old she is, since Derek knows her, but she's very powerful. I honestly think she kept from being a queen by sheer force of will. I don't think I've seen a female rove as powerful as her that didn't become a queen. She could easily travel a good distance without any ill effects. She's certainly capable of becoming difficult to find."

"Difficult to find? Are we talking about the same Laura Hale?" The vampire in question had many good qualities – style, intelligence, wit – but subtlety was not one of them.

Argent grinned. "Laura will be fine."

Stiles nodded and led the group out of the lab and back out of the shop to prepare for his trip. Stiles waited until Boyd and Argent were well out of sight and on their way back to BUR before pulling out his phone.

"Dad? We're going to need to move the kid earlier. I think Lydia has us leaving in a few hours."

He paused for a moment. "Finstock is with me now and I think he's going to come with us." Stiles paused again, listening. "Okay, I'll have Finstock call her and move everything up. This will probably be the last time I can use the phone for awhile. It's probably traceable." Stiles looked pained and Finstock stopped paying attention to Stiles's side of the conversation to strike up one with Lydia – anything to keep from having to deal with an emotional Stiles. "Bye, Dad. I love you. Tell the kid we'll figure it out. We'll keep him safe."

Stiles paused once more moment and then hung up the phone. He turned back to Finstock and Lydia, his face a little more stoic than normal.

"Can you call her and have her move things up? My dad is ready."

Finstock nodded and pulled out his phone.

Lydia looked at Stiles with interest. "Her?"

"Don't want to say the name, in case anyone is listening in somehow. She's helping us with the kid."

Lydia nodded and then changed the subject.

"Do you need to get any clothes? I don't suppose you packed before you showed up here."

Stiles looked sheepish. "Couldn't really go home or to my dad's. I pretty much just have my briefcase and my bat."

Lydia's grin could have struck fear into the heart of the fiercest warrior. Stiles knew it struck fear into him.

"Good thing there is so much shopping around here then. Our flight leaves in 6 hours. Let's see how fast we can shop."

2 and a half hours later, they walked back in to Lydia's shop laden down with bags. Stiles had his hoodie pulled over his head in pretty terrible effort to hide his identity, but he was sure the number of shopping bags he held did a much better job than the hood ever could. Luckily, Derek and he had a joint bank account and Derek couldn't just remove Stiles's access, as Stiles was pretty sure his own salary as a professor wouldn't have normally covered all of what they just bought. Also luckily, Stiles didn't think Derek would even notice the purchases, as it was but a scratch into his vast wealth. Still, Stiles would be paying this back for a very long time. He didn't like the idea of owing Derek anything, but he needed clothes and it _was_ Derek's fault that he was on his own while people were trying to kill him so he couldn't go home or even to his own father's house for clothes.

Erica walked in as Stiles was trying to shove clothes into a newly bought bag and Lydia was hissing something about properly folding things. Thankfully her entrance meant Lydia stopped paying attention to Stiles.

Lydia led Erica behind the counter and spent the next half hour showing her the point of sale system and how to do the accounting. Once she was sure Erica wouldn't mess anything up too badly she added, "There's no need to open up that often. I've listed any important appointments and I know you have your own job."

Erica nodded, but Stiles had a feeling that Erica was not going to be able to resist being around so many shoes all the time. Lydia wouldn't know what hit her shop once they returned. Stiles hoped there was a shop for Lydia to return to.

Stiles and Lydia said their goodbyes to Erica while Finstock looked on in boredom. Finally, they were off.

* * *

Agent Chris Argent had endured a long and trying day. Ordinarily, he was well equipped to do so. This afternoon, however, with the full mood approaching, an Alpha out of commission, and Stiles heading to Italy, he was getting irritable. The vampire drones were being evasive, only admitting that their masters "might not be available" for BUR duty that night. There were three vampires on staff and BUR was not designed to cope with the loss of all of them at once. Especially not when all the BUR-affiliated werewolves were young enough to already be out of commission due to the approaching full moon. Needless to say, Argent was in no mood to find, upon returning home just prior to sunset, his Alpha stumbling around the second floor library.

"You managed to find more everclear didn't you?"

"Ish good stuff."

"I thought I set Jackson to watch you. He hasn't gone to sleep, has he? He can take direct sunlight – I've seen him do it – and you are not that difficult to track, at least in this condition." Argent looked accusingly around the library, as though the Newark Gamma's blond head might just pop up from behind a bookcase.

"He can't do that."

"Why not? Where has he gone?" Argent was irritated, but it didn't show in his voice. It felt like he'd spent a lifetime being irritated with Jackson, and given the day so far, this was nothing more than he expected. "I gave him a direct order. Nothing should have superseded that. I am still Beta of this pack and he is under my command."

"Under mine firsh," objected Derek mildly.

"You gave him a direct order? In this state?" Argent was surprised. "And he obeyed you?"

For one brief second, Derek's eyes sharpened and flashed red. He looked quite sober. "I am still his Alpha; he had _better_ obey me."

Argent tried to move Derek into one of the armchairs in the library. "Where did you send him?" Argent, supporting the brunt of his Alpha's weight, blessed his own supernatural strength, which made the massive man merely awkward rather than hopeless to maneuver.

"Wouldn't you like to know?" Derek sung out petulantly, sounding awfully similar to a drunk Stiles. Argent was not amused.

"Did you send him to find Laura?"

Derek growled. "Missing, is she? Good. She should be. Running around with my husband. Never understood what Stiles saw in her." The Alpha's eyes squinted, as if he was trying to keep from thinking about her.

Suddenly, he flopped down with all his weight, slipped out of Argent's hold, and landed in a cross-legged heap in the middle of the floor. His eyes were red and he looking altogether too hairy for Argent's liking. Apparently Derek wasn't bothering to resist the change this month.

Chris Argent was Newark Pack Beta for many reasons, one of them being that he knew when he needed to ask for assistance. A quick run to the door and one loud yell had four clavigers in to help him navigate Derek, now a very drunken wolf, down to the dungeon lockup. An aggravating day was looking to become an equally aggravating night. With Jackson gone, Argent really had only one option left to him: he called a pack meeting.


	6. Chapter 6

The very odd looking group of three took an overnight flight to France with surprisingly little incident. Lydia indicated that this would be safer, although Stiles complained that they should just fly directly to Italy. Lydia didn't really pay any attention to the complaints and Finstock just grunted at Stiles.

When they arrived, though, even Stiles noticed some less-than-subtle stalkers following their group as they left the airport and was relieved Lydia had made the plan. They took a cab to a train station, where Finstock loudly, and if the locals' expressions were anything to go by, rudely, pretended to buy tickets. Stiles, drawing on every time he had ever embarrassed himself in high school and college (and okay, sometimes while he was teaching) by flailing around in large crowds, made a huge fuss trying to catch a train to Madrid. They went loudly in on one side and quietly out the other. They then exited to yet another cab. Lydia directed the driver, in flawless French, no less, to a tiny antiques shop nestled between a small bakery and a bookshop.

Stiles looked at the storefront, unimpressed. Mindful that he was in hiding from those who wanted him dead – or at least tortured for answers – though, he followed Lydia into the tiny shop. Once inside, his fears dissipated quickly due to curiosity.

The interior was littered with old furniture, as you would expect in any antiques shop. Except this furniture had carvings on it not unlike those on Stiles's baseball bat. Lydia had put them there when she'd made the weapon, but had done so at the bequest of Formerly Deaton, her ghost companion and an adopted relation of some sort, Stiles thought. Lydia didn't actually know what the marks meant. Deaton hadn't been keen to share once he realized that Stiles was preternatural, though. Ghosts weren't too fond of those who could exorcise them.

Unfortunately, Lydia pressed on through rapidly into a back room and up a set of stairs before Stiles could truly look around. They arrived in a tiny foyer of an apartment above the shop.

Stiles found himself surrounded and embraced by a room of unmitigated welcome and personality. All the furniture looked comfortable and worn and there were bright and cheerful paintings and photographs adorning the walls and side tables. Unlike in the United States, where courtesy to the supernatural prevailed, resulting in dark interiors with heavy curtains, the room was bright and well lit. The windows were thrown open and sunlight streamed in.

Lydia gave a short shout but didn't go looking for the owner of the place. She settled herself easily onto a sofa, as if she'd been there often before. Stiles settled beside her and Finstock took a position by the door, his hand at his waist. Sometimes Stiles forgot he was here in capacity as a bodyguard.

"Lydia! How good to see you!" The woman who entered the room matched the house perfectly – soft and friendly. She wore an apron and a large smile. She spoke in what Stiles thought was Spanish for a moment, before noticing Stiles and Finstock in the room and changing to English. "How are you?"

"I'm well. I hope you don't mind an unexpected visit, Melissa."

"Of course not! I adore company. You're always welcome."

Lydia grinned with much more sincerity than Stiles had seen since he had met the inventor. She made introductions. "This is Stiles Stilinski and Bobby Finstock. Stiles, Finstock, this is Melissa McCall, my friend and mentor."

Finstock nodded and Melissa smiled at him. Then she trained her gaze on Stiles.

"Not _that_ Stilinski?"

Stiles wouldn't go so far as to describe the woman as shocked, but she did react unexpectedly to his name.

"Her son," confirmed Lydia.

"Really?" The woman looked to Finstock, of all people, for confirmation.

Finstock nodded silently – once.

Melissa smiled. "Lydia you always bring me the best surprises. And trouble with them, of course, but we won't talk about that now, will we?"

"Better than that, Melissa. He has a child. And the mother is a vampire. How do you like _that_?"

Stiles gave Lydia a sharp look. They had not discussed revealing that to a stranger. This didn't just put them in danger – but the child as well. Plus, regardless of _any_ werewolf's sense of smell, he still didn't understand whose child that was and how it came to be.

"I must sit down." Melissa sat down hard in a nearby chair. She took a deep breath and looked at Stiles with interest.

"You are certain?"

Stiles glared. "I am not certain of anything. There is a child. I do not know who his parents are, but I have been faithful to my husband and I have certainly not left him alone for 9 months so a vampire could carry a child."

Melissa nodded. "Hmm. Well, there must be a reason, I suppose. The child is not here?"

Stiles shook his head.

"Not so very much like your mother, then," Melissa commented.

Stiles bristled.

"No offense meant. Just that she would have handled the situation in a different way. Not necessarily a better way. Just a different one." Melissa patted his hand.

Stiles glanced between Finstock and Melissa. "Is there anyone who didn't know my mother? Except me, of course."

"Most people, really. She preferred things that way. Be she dabbled in my circle, or in my mother's, I should say. I met her only once, when I was six. She made quite the impression." Melissa smiled.

"Circle?"

"The Order."

"My mother was an _inventor_?" That surprised Stiles. He had never heard that about his mother. Nothing in her journals ever alluded to it. His father didn't really talk about her, but Stiles thought he might have mentioned something like that.

"Oh, no." Melissa patted his arm again. "An irregular customer. She always had the oddest request."

The sat in silence for a moment.

"Well, you'll stay with me for the night, of course?"

"If you don't mind," Lydia replied.

"Of course not. I'll show you up."

They drug their things up to two rooms to share and then Lydia followed Melissa back downstairs to the shop, discussing some new invention or another that Stiles had no interest in. Suddenly he heard a loud noise from the shop.

Stiles bumped into Finstock at the top of the stairs.

Something crashed into the front door. Unlike New York, French shops did not stay open late in order to cater to werewolves and vampires. They shut down before sunset, locked firmly against any possible supernatural clients.

Stiles and Finstock bounded down the stairs – fought and tumbled was probably a more apt description, but they made it in one piece. There Stiles thought France's closed-door policy might have its merits. Just as he reached the shop floor landing, four large vampires entered the shop through the now-broken front door. Theirs fangs were extended and they did not look peaceful.


	7. Chapter 7

The trouble with vampires, thought Chris Argent, was that they got hung up on details. They liked to manipulate things, but when things did not turn out as planned, they lost all capacity to make decisions on the fly. The silver lining was that they panicked and resorted to something that they would never have tried had they thought it through first. Hopefully, this would make it easier for him to figure out this situation with Stiles.

"Where is our illustrious Alpha?" asked one of the younger pack members, sitting down at the table with Argent and helping himself to some bacon.

"He's in the basement and has been all day, sobering up. He was so drunk last night he went wolf. The dungeon seemed like the best place to stash him."

"Damn."

"Relationships will do that to you. Best avoid them, if you ask me," added another wolf.

The first wolf chomped on his bacon for a moment before glancing up. "No one did ask you. No one has ever been in any doubt as to your preferences."

"Some of us are less narrow-minded than others."

"More opportunistic, you mean."

"I get bored easily."

Everyone was on edge and grumpy – it was that time of the month.

Argent glanced around at everyone, rolling his eyes. "This is not why I called a meeting."

The pack looked at him and nodded.

"You will notice that the clavigers have not been invited?"

Around him, the pack nodded again. They knew this meant Argent wanted to discuss a serious matter with the pack alone. Normally, the clavigers were in everyone's business.

Argent, aware that he now had their full attention, began the meeting. "Given that our Alpha is pursuing a new career as a drunk, we must prepare for the worst. I'll need two more of you to help handle the extra BUR workload."

No one questioned Argent's right to make changes. At one point or another, each member of the pack had tested themselves against Chris Argent. All had discovered how unprepared they were for such an undertaking. They had, as a result, realized that a good Beta was just as important as a good Alpha and it was a good thing they had both. Of course, now they were lacking the Alpha. Their reputation as America's premier pack was going to be tested.

Argent continued. "Harry, Jack, it had best be you two. You have dealt with BUR paperwork before. Gareth, you'll need to handle some military things for Jackson."

"Is he drunk too?" one of the youngest members wanted to know.

"No. Missing. I don't suppose he told any of _you_ where he was going?"

Silence and head shaking met his question.

"I figured not. Any questions?"

No one had any. The pack was nervous and a little restless. Derek kept them tame through his presence alone. Argent could fight them each individually, but he didn't have the charisma to control them en masse. If Derek remained drunk, problems might arise within as well as from without. Either that or the northeast would run out of everclear.

Just then a timid knock sounded. Argent frowned; he'd left orders not to be disturbed.

"Yes?"

The door was pushed openly slightly and a nervous looking claviger stepped in holding a card.

"Sorry. I know you said not to interrupt, but I wasn't sure what to do."

Argent took the card and read it.

_Adrian R. Harris._ Underneath that in very small letters was one additional printed word: _Omega._

The Beta flipped over the card. On the back had been scrawled, in the appropriate medium – blood – the fated phrase, _Name your second_.

"Great." Argent rolled his eyes. "Dammit."

Chris Argent had spent a good deal of his existence as a werewolf avoiding becoming an Alpha. Not only was he ill-suited to the job personality-wise, but he was unable to affect Anubis Form. Alphas had, he also observed, a much shorter life span than other immortals. The problem was, Argent was rather fond of his current Alpha and was unwilling to acquiesce to a change. Which meant when omegas came to fight for the right to lead the nation's most powerful pack because the Alpha was rumored to be incapacitated, there was only one thing Argent could do – fight in Derek's place.

"Gareth, come help me."

One of the stronger and more senior pack members objected. "Shouldn't _I _be Gamma in Jackson's place?"

"Given that our military units are still here, it had better be one our enlisted pack members."

Argent had to maintain military support and, with the Gamma gone, this could prove difficult. Jackson might be a pain in the ass, but he was an excellent military man and had the respect of fellow soldiers and officers. Without him standing as second, Argent needed another officer to act the part so that the pack was seen as united with their military counterparts. It was a horrible idea, using the military to prevent an Alpha coup. Werewolves had served their military since they had first been accepted, but they always strived to keep pack protocol separate. Nevertheless, Argent would do what it took.

Argent and Gareth walked out the door and down to the front of Newark Castle.

Argent could smell the omega before he even saw him. His scent was not that of the Newark Pack, nor of any distant association. The bloodline made Argent's nose twitch.

Argent went forward to greet him. "Mr. Harris? How do you do?"

The werewolf looked at Argent suspiciously. "Derek Hale?"

"Chris Argent," said Argent. And then to make matters clear, "And this is my second, Gareth Jones."

The omega looked offended. Argent could tell from the man's scent that this was for show. He was neither upset nor nervous at seeing Argent instead of Derek. He had not expected the Alpha to meet his challenge. He had heard the rumors.

"The Alpha will not even acknowledge my challenge?" Harris's question was sly. "I know of you by reputation, of course, but why is Mr. Hale not meeting me?"

Argent did not dignify this with a response. "Shall we proceed?"

Argent and Harris stripped and stood naked for all the world to see. No one commented.

Argent was older than he cared to admit and had grown, if not comfortable with shape change, at least in control enough not to make noise. If asked, the men surrounding them would have admitted that if anyone could be said to change from man to wolf with dignity, it was Chris Argent.

The challenger's change was not nearly so elegant. It was accomplished with much more groaning and painful whimpers, but the brown wolf that stood when it was complete was much larger than Argent's small, sandy wolf. Argent was not worried. _Most_ werewolves were larger than he.

The challenger attacked, but Argent was already in motion, twisting out of the way and darting for the other's throat. He had a lot to do and he wanted to finish this quickly.

But the omega was craftier than Argent had given him credit for. He avoided the counterattack and they circled each other warily, both realizing they might have underestimated their opponents.

The men around them closed in, forming a circle of bodies around the pair.

The omega charged at Argent, snapping. Argent dodged. Argent took advantage and dove at him, hitting the omega with enough force to knock him on his side. The two wolves rolled over each other. Argent could feel the claws of the omega tearing into his underbelly as he bit into the creature's neck.

Then he realized something was disturbing the crowd.

The tight circle of bodies began rippling and then two pack members were thrust aside and Derek entered the ring.

He was naked, had been all day, but under the moonlight, he was once again scruffy and feral. From his swaying, either a day underground had not been enough to eliminate all the everclear in his system or he'd managed to acquire more. Argent would have to have words with the claviger who'd let him out.

Despite Derek's presence, Argent tried not to get distracted.

"Chris!" roared his Alpha. "What are you doing? Stop fighting."

Argent ignored him.

Until Derek changed.

He was a big man and in wolf form, he was large even for a werewolf. He emerged from the transformation a huge black wolf with glowing red eyes. He bounced over to where Argent still scrabbled with the omega, wrapped his massive jaws around his Beta's neck, and hauled him off.

Argent knew what was good for him and scrambled off into the crowd.

Derek barreled into the challenger, jaws snapping down.

The omega dodged to one side, his eyes panicked. He had banked on not having to fight the Alpha. Argent could smell his fear.

Derek swiveled around and then tripped.

_Definitely still drunk_, thought Argent, resigned.

The omega seized the opportunity and dove for Derek's neck, but Derek shook his head at the same moment and their skulls cracked together. The omega fell back, dazed.

Derek stumbled again, and much to his own astonishment, came down right on top of the omega's head, his claws sinking into the challenger's eye.

Because werewolves were immortal and hard to kill, challenges could last for days. An injury to the eye was generally considered a win, though, since it took a few days to heal and a wolf could usually be killed when blind.

As soon as the claw hit, the challenge whimpered and presented his stomach to Derek in surrender.

Argent stood and stretched. Perhaps this was a good thing – to have it publicly known that Derek could defeat a challenger, even when drunk. Maybe he could finally get some work done. Without Derek to do anything, it seemed like he had a lot to do.


	8. Chapter 8

Vampires were, unfortunately, quick as well as strong. They weren't as strong as werewolves, but at this time, Stiles didn't have any werewolves fighting with him – _dammit Derek_ – so the vampires had a distinct advantage.

"Because," he grumbled, "my husband is a jackass. I probably wouldn't even be in this situation if it weren't for him."

Finstock rolled his eyes.

Lydia and Melissa were making their way around from behind a work table. Lydia pulled out a sharp looking stake and pointed her other wrist at the intruders. On the wrist she wore a large watch that probably did something like shoot darts or poison or something else equally lethal, Stiles guessed.

Stiles grasped his baseball bat tightly. He readied it to shoot the numbing darts, but he wasn't sure if those worked on supernaturals. Unfortunately, they were the only projectiles in the weapon.

"How did they find me so quickly?"

"So they are after _you_? Well, I guess that's not a surprise." The older woman glanced in Stiles's direction.

"Yea, well, not really my fault."

Melissa laughed. "I did say you always brought me surprises and trouble with them, didn't I, Lydia. What _have_ you gotten me into this time?"

Lydia explained. "I am sorry, Melissa. We should have told you sooner. The Manhattan vampires want Stiles dead and I guess they passed that on to the French hives."

Melissa shrugged, but did not seem upset. She almost seemed to smile.

The vampires pressed closer.

"Can we talk about this?" St++++iles asked.

None of the vampires responded.

Lydia asked in French. Still nothing.

Stiles kind of wished they would answer with a "No, killing is all we're interested in, but thanks for the offer."

There were plenty of tables and display cabinets in the shop that stood between the vampires and Stiles's band of defenders. This didn't keep the vampires from advancing.

Stiles decided it was probably a good time to start shooting. So he shot.

The poisoned dart hissed slightly as it flew, struck one of the vampires dead cent in the chest, and stuck there. The vampire looked at the dart and then at Stiles with a very offended look before crumpling to the floor.

"Nice shot, but it won't last long," said Lydia, who would know. "Supernaturals metabolize it faster."

Stiles armed his bat and shot again. Another vampire collapsed, but the first was already beginning to get to his feet.

The remaining two were upon them.

Lydia shot one with a wooden dart from her watch, missing his chest and hitting the upper part of his left arm. _I knew it wasn't an ordinary watch!_ thought Stiles. Lydia slashed at the same vampire with her stake. He began to bleed from two spots, arm and cheek, and he backed away.

"We're not interested in you, scientist. Give us the spark and we'll go away."

"_Now_ you want to talk?" Stiles was annoyed.

The last vampire lunged at him. He had one hand wrapped around Stiles's wrist when he realized his miscalculation.

Upon contact, his fangs disappeared, as did all of his strength. He was no longer capable of dragging Stiles off, yet no matter how hard Stiles pulled, he couldn't break the vampire's grip. He must have been a strong man before he changed. Stiles began bashing at the no-longer-supernatural creature with his bat, but he did not let go, even as Stiles inflicted real injury upon him. The vampire seemed to be recovering and shifted, trying to actually haul Stiles up onto a shoulder.

A gunshot rang throughout the shop and the vampire collapsed backward, letting go of Stiles. Stiles glanced to his left, astounded to see Finstock holding a horribly antiquated gun. The vampire Finstock shot stayed down, writhing in agony on the floor, a bullet in his shoulder.

Melissa seemed momentarily captivated. "That's a sundowner's weapon, isn't it?"

Finstock didn't say anything. It was rare that he was silent, so even Stiles looked over. There was an accusation inherent in the term, though, because "sundowner" implied official sanction, which Finstock probably didn't have. Which meant he shouldn't have the gun either.

"Since when would you know anything about guns?" Lydia quirked an eyebrow at the older woman.

Stiles readjusted his bat and shot his last dart.

"Now you've wasted them all," accused Lydia, letter her own, more effective dart fly. It hit the vampire in the eye and sluggish blood oozed out from around it. Stiles felt ill.

Two of the vampires were incapacitated. The other two had retreated. Lydia glared at Stiles. "Stop stalling and use the solaris."

Stiles looked indecisive. "I'm afraid it will hit one of you. It's toxic to non-supes too, you know."

One of the remaining vampires was not so indecisive and he lurched forward, intent on Stiles. Finstock shot again. This bullet hit the vampire in the chest. He fell backward, crashing into a cabinet, and then flopped limply – dead.

The remaining vampire looked both annoyed and confused. He didn't have any kind of a weapon beyond his own supernatural abilities, which didn't seem to be helping against Stiles's group. The vampire Lydia spiked in the eye yanked out the dart. The two vampires joined forces and advanced again.

Finstock pocketed his gun. "It only had two shots. It's old."

"Stiles, use your bat!" yelled Melissa.

Stiles gave her an odd look. "I've tried that. It's not very helpful."

"When you're not touching them. When they're still vampires."

Stiles suddenly remembered the markings. And he swung. The second the bat touched the vampire, the marks flared to life, shining brightly. Where it met the vampire, the skin blistered and burned. Smoke rose up. The vampire jumped back, but Stiles knew he couldn't hold them back for long.

"Everyone up stairs!" yelled Melissa. Stiles held the bat out threateningly as they backed towards the staircase, making sure everyone else made it up first.

The vampires remained warily at the bottom of the stairs, unwilling to try to follow up the narrow stairs in single file.

"Anyone have a plan?" Stiles asked hopefully, glaring down the stairs at the vampires.

Lydia grinned fiercely. "I do, but you're not going to like it."

Finstock let out an audible groan.

"Melissa here was once married to the head of France's supernatural defense agency. He was an asshole, but he's still worried about her safety and he has a great fear of werewolves. So there's a helipad on the roof. _And_ a helicopter."

Stiles glanced over long enough to realize that the grin on Lydia's face was downright scary.

"Lydia, I'm not actually supposed to use that," said Melissa with a frown. "That's really for if _he's_ attacked here, not me."

"Then why is it still here? He doesn't come see you anymore. Don't worry about it."

Lydia grabbed Stiles by the arm and began dragging him to the roof, Finstock and Melissa not far behind.

Then Stiles heard a horrible growling sound from the shop below. He couldn't see down the stairs any longer to see what it was. A new sound of fighting began as the vampire engaged whatever it was that was hunting them.

Stiles didn't have much time to dwell on the sounds, though, as they reached the end of the hall and clambered out a window onto a fire escape and up to the roof.


	9. Chapter 9

Stiles wondered what had attacked the vampires down below: a savior, a protector, or some new form of monster that wanted him for itself? He was brought out of contemplation by a lot of banging and cursing from the two female inventors.

Stiles climbed in the helicopter and Finstock followed behind. Lydia slid into the cockpit at the pilot's seat. Melissa smiled at them from outside.

"Are you not coming with us?" Stiles felt a strange sort of panic.

Melissa shook her head and then looked to Lydia. "I think there's enough fuel to make it to Nice."

Lydia started up the engine and the propellers whirled. Melissa retreated.

As they began to rise, a large bang sounded and two vampires burst on to the roof.

Melissa's grin retreated and she turned to face the supernatural threat. They ignored her and moved past, towards the helicopter.

One of the vampires leapt up after them, hands stretched to grab. He got close enough for Stiles to see he had a collection of jagged bite marks on his neck and arms. A huge white beast appeared behind him. Limping and bleeding, the creature charged the airborne vampire, bringing him back to the rooftop with a crash.

They rose and Paris became lost beneath them.

* * *

Chris Argent had a lot to do that night: BUR investigations, pack business, and Lydia's laboratory to check up on. Naturally, he ended up doing none of those things. Because what he really wanted to find out was the current location of Laura Hale – vampire, fashion icon, and very stylish thorn in everyone's side.

The thing about Laura Hale was – and in Argent's experience, there was always a _thing_ – that where she herself was not a fixture, her drones were. Despite supernatural speed and flawless taste is shoes, Laura Hale could not, in fact, attend every social event of note every single evening. But she did seem to have a collection of drones who could and did. The _thing_ that was bothering Argent at the moment was that they weren't. Not only was the vampire missing, but so were all of her drones. Usually, any major social event in New York City could be relied upon to temporarily house some young man or woman with interest too keen to complement their otherwise frivolous appearance. These young people, regardless of how silly they might act and how much they might drink, reported back to their master with such an immense amount of information as to put the FBI, CIA, and NSA to shame.

And they had all vanished.

Argent couldn't identify most of them by face or name, but as he made the rounds of various parties, bars, and clubs, he became painfully aware of their absence. He himself was welcome at most establishments but was not expected. He wasn't as social as most other supernaturals. Yet he was familiar enough with the places to mark the difference one vampire's disappearance had wrought. His careful inquiries yielded neither destination nor explanation. In the end, he headed to find the blood brothels.

"You new? Like a sip, would ya?" The young man propped up against a scummy brick wall was pale and drawn. The dirty scarf wrapped around his neck no doubt already covered a number of marks.

"Looks like you've given enough already."

"Nope. I'm fine." The boy popped the 'p' in words."

Argent bared his teeth at the boy, showing the boy that he did not, in fact, have the fangs for the job.

"Right, right. No offense."

"I'll give you twenty if you give me some information."

The man's face became still. "I don't snitch."

"I'm not looking for your clientele. I'm just looking for a vampire. Laura Hale."

The young man straightened up. "Won't find her here. She's got enough of her own."

"I know. I want to know if you know where she is now."

The man bit his lip.

Argent handed him the twenty. There weren't a lot of vampires in New York City and blood whores tended to know a good deal about the local hives and roves as a matter of survival.

The lip was nibbled on slightly more.

Argent handed him another twenty.

"Word on the street is she left town."

"And?"

"Didn't know a master could be mobile like that."

Argent frowned. "Any idea where?"

The young man shook his head.

"Or why?"

Another shake.

"One more twenty if you can direct me to someone who does."

"You ain't gonna like it."

Argent handed him another bill.

"You'd be wantin' the other queen, then."

Argent groaned inwardly. Of course it would be internal vampire politics.

Before he could try for the Manhattan hive, though, he got a call from Boyd.

Arriving at Boyd and Erica's apartment, Argent still wasn't entirely sure why he was there.

Erica invited him into the living room.

"How is the shoe shop coming?" He asked politely, for lack of better subject. Boyd had said Erica had news from there, but didn't say what.

"Fantastic. Such great gossip." Argent really didn't like the gleam in her eye. "Just tonight Braeden Tandy came by. The singer. You've heard of her?"

The werewolf nodded.

"She came to pick up a special order for Morrell herself. She looked distressed."

Argent nodded again. Maybe this was what Boyd was talking about. "What was wrong?"

"I don't think she expected me to overhear. She was discussing something with her companion. Aiden or Ethan or whatever. One of the vampire twins. Apparently she caught Morrell and a man, a potent man, I think she said, arguing. Braeden said she thought the Manhattan Queen was accusing the man of taking something from Laura Hale. I figured I should let you know since I'm not due in at BUR for a few days and I can't seem to get a hold of Stiles or Laura."

Argent knew very well the identity of Erica's "potent man". Erica probably did too. Argent had his suspicions as to why she had taken a week off to run Lydia's shop for her, but had more pressing issues than that and he did not want to put anyone in more danger than necessary. This was rapidly becoming a very serious problem. The potentate was the premier rove in all of the United States and the president's chief strategist. He sat on the Shadow Council with the dewan, werewolf omega and, until recently, Stiles had been shah, the preternatural advisor. The potentate was one of the oldest vampires in the country. And he had stolen something from Laura Hale. Chris Argent would wager good money on the fact that it was in pursuit of that very object that Laura Hale had gone missing.

Argent decided his best possible course of action was to head home to Newark Castle and go to sleep. Often vampires were better understood after a good day's rest.


	10. Chapter 10

Upon arrival in Nice, Lydia led them to a small door that once might have been colored blue, and then yellow, and then green, a history proudly displayed in crumbling strips of paint all down the front. The inventor knocked softly at first, and then more and more loudly until she was banging quite violently on the door.

The only reaction the racket caused was the immediate commencement of an unending bout of hysterical barking from some small dog on the other side of the door.

After a good deal more banging and barking, the door cautiously opened a crack to reveal a woman with a piercing glare.

"Lydia? What are you doing here?"

"I thought Stiles might like to meet a supernatural biologist like you."

"Stiles? Stilinski? Really?"

Stiles tried not to be creeped out by the way she said his name. He failed spectacularly.

"Come in, please."

The woman paused upon noticing Finstock for the first time.

"And who is this?"

"Uh, this is Finstock, my bodyguard."

The woman – Stiles still didn't know her name - went to walk a slow turn around Finstock.

"Is he, is he _really_? Nothing more evil than that? No? Are you certain?" She reached out and yanked down Finstock's shirt, checking the neck area for marks.

"Do you _mind_?" Finstock gave the woman an odd look.

Seeing nothing incriminating, the woman left off. She grabbed Stiles by the hand and dragged him into her tiny house. She gestured for the other two to follow, giving Finstock another dubious once-over.

"Well, you realize, under ordinary circumstances, I wouldn't. Not a man, not so late at night. Never can tell with Americans. But I suppose, just this once. Though, I did hear some of the terrible, terrible rumors about _you_." The woman gave Stiles that creepy glare again.

"Heard you married a _werewolf_. What a thing for a preternatural to go and do. A most unfortunate choice."

"Is it?" Stiles managed to get just those two words in before the woman continued on without apparent pause or need for breath, shepherding them into a messy little living room.

"Yes, well, we all make mistakes."

"You have no idea," muttered Stiles, feeling a strange aching pain of loss.

Lydia began poking about the room with interest. Finstock took up his customary position by the door, his hand at his waist. He had reloaded his gun on the helicopter.

Their host went over to a side table and pulled a pack of cigarettes out of a drawer. "Cigarette?" She offered the pack around.

Everyone declined. The woman seemed unwilling to accept Finstock's refusal. "I insist."

"I'm fine."

"Really, I _insist_." The woman's eyes were hard again.

Finstock shrugged and took a cigarette. He allowed the woman to light and he inhaled. When Finstock showed no abnormal reaction, the woman stopped watching him and Finstock was able to put out the cigarette.

Lydia tried to fill the silence. "Victoria has been studying the preternatural state for many years."

"It has been difficult, most difficult, to find a live specimen. Trouble with the church, you see."

"Excuse me?"

The woman almost looked embarrassed for a moment, before she went back to her cold expression. "A little bother. Had to move to France and leave much of my research behind. A travesty."

Stiles looked to Lydia for explanation.

"She was excommunicated," said the inventor in a grave, hushed voice.

"I take it she told you?" The woman – Victoria – asked.

Lydia shrugged and nodded, but didn't say anything.

Victoria sighed. "Well, regardless, you brought me a fine visitor. A living preternatural. May I ask you some questions, Mr. Stilinski? Maybe a test or two?"

She started trying to force tea on everyone – Earl Grey, with lemon – when Stiles finally realized what was going on.

"You realize that vampires are perfectly capable of consuming citrus, right? They just don't like it."

"Yes, of course, I'm well aware. But it is a good initial check until the sun comes up. Like the cigarettes."

Finstock sighed. "I'm not supernatural."

Stiles snickered. Finstock looked about one more odd imposition from a full-on rant.

Victoria did not seem convinced by verbal guarantees. She kept a suspicious eye on Finstock.

"You could still be a claviger or a drone."

Finstock suck in air – probably to start a rant.

Stiles cut him off. "You already checked him for bite marks."

"Absence of marks is not absolute proof, especially as he may be a claviger. You _did_ marry a werewolf, after all."

Lightning quick, the suspicious woman's mood changed and she looked with new suspicious at Stiles. "I need to be sure you are who you say as well. I have a little ghost problem. Perhaps you could exorcise it? Should not be hard." She glanced out a small window at the rapidly brightening dawn. "Before sunrise?"

Stiles sighed. "This could not possibly wait until tomorrow? We've been traveling most of the night."

The woman just stared at him.

"Fine." Stiles put down the tea that he hadn't taken a sip of. If it was necessary for this woman to trust them in order to get some answers, he would do it. Stiles sighed, angry once more at his husband's rejection. He wasn't entirely certain how just yet, but he intended to blame this latest nuisance on Derek as well as everything else.

They went downstairs into a tiny cellar. Lydia and Finstock remained upstairs. Finstock did not seem to think Victoria was any threat.

The cellar was gloomy and included a ghost, just as Victoria had said. The ghost was very messy. It was flitting around the dark in pale wisps.

"You really should have had this taken care of weeks ago. You shouldn't have let it get this bad."

"I was studying it," was the woman's only response. She did not explain further.

Victoria pointed out the body. What was left was a crumpled skeleton, mostly defleshed by maggots and mold. He chose the least decomposed part of the head and touched there quickly. The flesh was squishy and it compressed like wet sponge cake.

Stiles jerked back in disgust.

The ghost vanished instantly.

"Extraordinary. I have not observed a preternatural end a ghost before now. Well, that confirms you are preternatural. Congratulations."

_As if I have won some sort of prize_, Stiles thought bitterly.

They made their way back up to join Lydia and Finstock.

"Why all this testing?" Stiles asked, when it became obvious the woman still wasn't going to offer them a place to sleep until it was full light and she was sure Finstock was not supernatural.

"My research is delicate – dangerous, even. If I am to trust you, or to help you, it is important that none of you are undead."

Stiles winced. Lydia straightened out abruptly, must less drowsy.

"That's rather crude."

"Is it? You Americans and your semantics."

"But 'undead' certainly is not apt."

The woman's eyes went hard. "I suspect that depends on what you define as living. Given my current studies, 'undead' suits very well."

"Maybe not for long," Lydia chimed in.

"You know something of relevance?"

Stiles glared at Lydia. She should really stop sharing this with strangers. Lydia ignored him. "We think there is a child with Stiles as father and a vampire mother."

"Really? What a fantastic abomination!" Victoria said in a chilling tone.

Stiles, loathe though he was to worry about the child who still didn't have a name, did not like how this woman talked about him. "Excuse me?"

Victoria ignored him. She was starting to go through a stack of papers – her research, Stiles supposed.

Lydia grabbed a hold of Stiles's arm. "We'll just find a guest room ourselves, then."

She practically drug him down the hall, Finstock trailing behind.

"Stiles," she hissed when they were out of the room. "She may be able to help us figure out how this happened. Don't piss her off."

"She better be as good as you think she is," was Stiles's only response.


	11. Chapter 11

When Stiles finally came down to breakfast the next morning it was no longer morning at all, but early afternoon. Lydia and Finstock were already seated at the small dining table, as was the older woman – Victoria. She was absorbed in some research while eating.

Lydia greeted him with a fond smile and Finstock nodded, but Victoria barely looked up.

Stiles was silent, thinking of Derek. He suddenly felt very homesick.

"Are you feeling well?" Lydia placed a soft hand on Stiles's arm.

"I'm fine. I was just thinking of New York for a moment."

Victoria looked up curiously. "He did not treat you well? The werewolf husband?"

"Not so much, in the end."

"Werewolves," Victoria replied, not disguising her disgust. "Difficult creatures. What is left is all violence and emotion. It is a wonder you Americans have integrated them at all."

Stiles shrugged. "I was under the impression that vampires were more difficult."

"Really?"

Stiles tried to figure out how to word it. "You know how they get – all condescending and holier-than-thou." He paused. "Or maybe you don't, do you?"

"Hmm, I should have thought werewolves were more of an issue. With all the running around in the army and marrying normal people."

"Well, _my_ particular werewolf did turn out difficult. But, to be fair, he was just fine up until the end." Stiles was painfully conscious that "fine" was an understatement. Derek had been the perfect husband in his massive grumpy way: smart, protective, tender, except when it wasn't necessary, and then rough when he needed to be (and Stiles wanted him to be). He shivered slightly at the memories. Derek was loud and gruff and slightly overworked, but he had loved him. Or at least, Stiles had thought he did. It had taken Stiles a long time to believe that he was worth all the affection Derek had given him and he thought it might have taken Derek just as long to believe Stiles loved him as well – maybe he still didn't truly believe it. To have it stolen away quickly was that much crueler.

"Isn't the end result what counts?" Lydia cocked her head. She had taken Stiles's side fiercely when Derek kicked him out.

Stiles shrugged.

"You can't forgive him, can you?" Lydia seemed ready to reprimand him.

Victoria glanced up. "Cast you out, did he? Well, loathe as I am to see his point of view, you did have a child with someone else."

"I did not cheat on him!" Stiles yelled. He was getting very tired of all of these accusations. Even Victoria seemed shocked into silence. "Derek said the child smelled like its parents were me and a vampire. Both of us were kidnapped around the time this child would have been conceived _and_ the child was rescued from an offshoot of the very same group of scientists that did the kidnapping. I've done the calculations. I don't know what they did to us, but I did not cheat on my husband. If this child is mine – fine. But he is not mine because of some indiscretion!"

Stiles was flushed. Lydia looked more serious.

Finstock was trying to hold in laughter. "Indiscretion? Really Stiles? What are you, in a romance novel?"

Stiles rolled his eyes, but Finstock's words had made him calm down slightly.

Victoria looked slightly more calculating, though. "So, you think they did something when they kidnapped you. Did you say you knew the vampire who may be the mother? Did she carry the child?"

Stiles shook his head. "I see her constantly, but not enough to keep ahold of her for nine months to let her carry a child. I didn't even know vampire women _could_ carry a child."

"I spent all morning with research. Everything I've read would agree with you. I've never even heard of a vampire or werewolf having a child, much less a female, who would need to be in contact with a preternatural for the entire term to carry it. But there are older records."

"Records kept by vampires?" Stiles theorized, thinking of the Vampire Edicts.

"Records kept by Templars."

Finstock winced. Stiles glanced at him, but Finstock did not look up.

"You think they may have some idea as to how this is possible?"

"If this has happened before, they will have records of it."

Stiles had grand visions of marching into Derek's office and slamming down proof of his innocence – of making him eat his words.

"It is quite remarkable. Until last night, I would have sworn that vampires and werewolves could only breed through metamorphosis. Your preternatural touch, it does not cancel out the fact that they have mostly died. It turns them mortal – it gives them more life – but not _human_."

Stiles shrugged, unsure as to where she was going with this.

"I have rethought this. There is one line of evidence to think about. Both vampires and werewolves still engage in sexual activities."

Stiles blushed. Finstock blushed. Even Victoria blushed slightly. Stiles did not want to discuss his sex life with anyone at this table and it didn't seem that they particularly wanted to discuss it with him. Well, Lydia seemed unperturbed.

"There has to be a reason the procreative urges aren't eliminated postmetamorphosis. Yet, nothing I could find adequately addressed this. If they were really undead, werewolves should no longer have a need for that function. Vampires, in particular, who find it more difficult, would probably eliminate it. But they do not."

Stiles nodded.

"It is a wonder, though, that you let this child leave you. From what I have heard, preternaturals are very drawn to each other. If nothing else, the Templar breeding program proved this true."

Stiles looked at her oddly. He had shared a room with a preternatural mummy once; he knew the odd feeling that he need to be close to the body and _it_ was dead. He couldn't imagine what it would feel like to be around one that was alive. His mother had died when he was a baby, so he did not know what it felt like with her.

"This may not be an ordinary preternatural child. This one has a vampire mother. This is something _different_. It must be." Lydia said. She turned to look at Stiles. "It is a safe bet that the vampires aren't trying to kill him and you simply because there is another preternatural."

Victoria was absorbed in some papers again, but then Lydia's words seemed to sink in.

"Vampires trying to kill him? Did you say they were trying to kill him? That _thing_, sitting there at _my_ table, in _my_ house?"

Lydia shrugged. "Well, yes. Or at least capture him and interrogate him."

"But that means they will be coming. They will be following him. _Here_! Vampires! I _hate_ vampires! You must get out. You must all leave now. Go to the Templars. They will take care of you, if only because the vampires are after you."

It took merely minutes for them to grab their things and head out the door. Finstock, at least, did not seem at all reluctant to leave.


	12. Chapter 12

Upon reflection, Stiles decided it was probably safer to head on toward Italy during the day, anyway. It was becoming obvious that if he wanted any answers about the child, he would have to extract those answer from either the Templars or the vampires. And of the two, only one was likely to talk _before_ trying to kill him.

Another thing had also become apparent. As much as he'd love to prove Derek wrong, and he _was_ wrong about Stiles cheating at least, Stiles had somehow decided that the child was his. He wasn't sure if he'd always known it and refused to accept it or maybe he'd just come to realize that Argent wasn't blinded by rage and hurt and betrayal and certainly wouldn't lie about believing Stiles was the father, especially since he didn't think Stiles actually cheated on Derek. There had to be another explanation. And Stiles had to figure out what it was.

They rented a car this time, with Finstock driving, but by the time they got just over the border into Italy, Stiles had the feeling they were being followed. Finstock evidently had this feeling too, because when they entered Ventimiglia, after under an hour of driving, Finstock pulled over and they took a train instead.

When they got off the train, a group of men in large white robes with a massive red cross embroidered across the front circled them. They dismissed Lydia and Finstock without a second glance.

Finstock looked annoyed.

"What is it?" Stiles hissed, but Finstock just shook his head slightly.

The leader spoke, his English perfect. "Zycie Stilinski, son of Zoya Stilinski, how wonderful. We have been waiting a very long time for you to come here."

With that, he gave a little nod and Stiles felt a prick on the side of his neck.

He heard Finstock shouting something, but he was yelling from a very long way away, and then Stiles collapse backward into the waiting arms of the holiest of holy antisupernatural elite, the Knights Templar.

* * *

Agent Chris Argent generally kept to a nighttime schedule, but he spent the afternoon prior to the full moon awake in order to conduct some last-minute research. Unfortunately, Erica's revelation only served to complicate matters. Despite all of his and BUR's combined sources, Laura Hale and her drones were still missing. Stiles's son remained impossible and Derek Hale was still out of commission. The Alpha was, most likely, no longer drunk, but, given the impending full moon, Argent had seen him safely back behind bars with strict instructions that this time _no one_ was to let him out or there would be uncomfortable consequences.

He was so involved in his current work that he was behind schedule for his own confinement. His personal clavigers awaited him in the Newark foyer wearing expressions of mild panic. They were accustomed to Newark's Beta, tamest and most prepared of the pack, arriving several hours ahead of moonrise.

"Sorry," was Argent's only comment.

He held out his wrist obediently, as he could already feel the strain of the moon, even though it had not year peeked over the horizon.

They led him down into the pack dungeon and into his cell. It wasn't long before the pain and noise and madness of the moon took him.

He awoke to the sound of Derek yelling. This was fairly commonplace, so Argent barely noticed.

"Who is Alpha of this damn pack?" The roar carried through the dungeon.

"You, sir," said a timid voice. They were calling him 'sir'. This couldn't be good, thought Argent.

"And who is currently giving you a direct order to be released from this cell?"

"That would be you."

"And yet who is still locked away?"

"That would still be you."

"Yet somehow you do not see what's wrong."

"Argent said – "

"Argent, my ass!"

"Yes, sir."

Argent yawned. His clavigers noticed he was awake and unlocked the door, bringing him raw meat and clothes. By the time he'd eaten and dressed, Derek had almost – but not quite – convinced his own clavigers to let him out. The young men were looking harassed and had, at least, passed some clothing through to Derek.

Argent wandered over unhurried.

"Chris, let me out now."

Argent ignored him. He took the key and sent the clavigers to see to the rest of the pack, who were starting to wake up.

"Do you remember what the Newark Pack was like when you first came to challenge for it?"

Derek paused in his yelling and his pacing to look up in surprise. "Of course I do. It wasn't that long ago."

"Not so nice, the previous Alpha. Excellent fighter, of course, but he'd gone a bit mad." Argent shook his head. He hated talking about his previous Alpha.

"Your point." Derek could only be surprised out of his impatience for a brief length of time.

"You're becoming a bit like him."

Derek took a deep breath and then worried at his lower lip with his teeth. "Huh."

He didn't say another word and neither did Argent. Derek stared down at the floor of his cell.

"It is time for you to face up to your responsibilities, Derek Hale. You have had enough time to wallow in your mistake."

"Excuse me?"

Argent had had more than enough of his Alpha's behavior and he was a master of perfect timing. Unless he was wrong, and Chris Argent was rarely wrong, Derek Hale was ready to admit the truth. And even if Argent was, somehow wrong, Derek couldn't be allowed to continue to act like this simply out of stubbornness.

"You aren't fooling any of us."

Derek resisted admission of guilt even as his face crumbled.

"But I kicked him out."

"Yes, you did and wasn't that a stupid thing to do?"

"Possibly."

"Because?" Argent crossed his arms and dangled the key to his Alpha's cell temptingly from one fingertip.

"Because there is no way he cheated on me. Not Stiles. And not with _Laura_."

"And?"

"And there has to be some sort of explanation for the child." Derek paused. "But it _did_ smell like them."

Argent held up a hand. "But?"

"But there's no way Stiles kept a hold of her for nine months to have a child without me noticing. There has to be another explanation." This was followed by a much longer pause. "He's never going to forgive me for this, is he?"

Argent had no mercy. "I wouldn't. But then, I have never precisely been in his situation before."

"Dammit. Couldn't he have stayed around and argued with me some more? Did he have to disappear so quickly?"

"You do recall that you looked like you were going to attack, don't you?"

"I would never hurt Stiles. I'd rather die."

"Yes, well, that doesn't mean you don't look like you could hurt him."

Derek looked, if possible, even more guilty.

"Are you going to behave yourself now? Stay out of the everclear?"

"I guess."

Argent let his Alpha out of his cell.

"So what do I have to do to win him back? How do I convince him to come home?"

"You are forgetting that, given your treatment of him, he may not _want_ to come home."

"Then I'll make him forgive me." Derek's voice was both loud and anguished.

"That's not quite how it works."

Derek glared.

"You remember groveling?"

Derek glared again. "I guess he's gone to Italy? It'll take me some time to get there. Boats take forever, but hopefully I can catch up."

Argent looked surprised. "How did you guess?"

"That's where I would have gone for answers."

"Well, you'll have to wait a little."

"What now? He's in danger. I need to find him."

"Stiles can take care of himself." Argent put his foot down. "You have responsibilities here. Laura Hale has disappeared, as have all of her drones. Completely gone. I have been trying to find out what and why and where, but it has been somewhat hectic, what with you drunk all the time and Jackson missing, I'm doing the work of three people. You can't run off quite yet."

Derek frowned. "Oh right. Jackson. I forgot about him."

Argent sighed.

"Fine. I'll give you three days. I have to trust you're right. Stiles can take care of himself and I'm sure he took Finstock with him. But only three days."

Argent let out a sigh of relief. "He is much better at taking care of himself then you give him credit for."

Derek glared. "Yes, but he also likes to run into the middle of things. I'm only staying because Stiles definitely won't take me back if Laura gets hurt because I was too drunk to watch out for her. He may even think I did it on purpose. I'll lose him forever. You'd think she was his sister instead of mine."

Argent had to work very hard to keep from rolling his eyes. He suspected Derek couldn't decide whether to be more worried that his sister – whatever the state of their relationship was currently – was missing or that Stiles was mad and potentially too angry to ever forgive him. But whatever would get his Alpha to help was fine was all Chris Argent could really ask for.


	13. Chapter 13

Stiles did not, of course, realize they were Templars until he woke up, and even then it took him a moment. He wasn't a prisoner either, he realized, or not exactly, but was laying in the guest quarters of a lavish rooms of – if the view was to be believed – some Italian city.

Stiles rolled out of the bed to find his briefcase and baseball bat apparently unharmed and propped against the wall. He grabbed both and stuck his head cautiously out into the hallway.

The hall proved to more of a large vestibule, covered in thick carpets and lined with religious effigies. The cross was particularly popular. Stiles began to wonder if he was inside of church or museum. _Did churches have guest rooms?_ He had no idea. Neither he nor his father had ever been very religious.

He finally came to a massive room were men were seated at long tables, eating. They were remarkably silent.

Stiles swallowed nervously and stepped into the room.

Nobody seemed to notice him at all. There were one or two subtle glances his way, but Stiles Stilinski was by and large ignored by everyone there.

"Hello?"

Silence.

"Stiles!" A hand waved him over to one of the tables. In among the men sat Finstock and Lydia.

"I see you still have your baseball bat." Lydia said with a grin. Stiles smiled back, although he was still uncomfortable.

"Are these the Templars, then? I can see why you don't like them, then, Finstock. Highly dangerous, mute robe wearers. Ruthless providers of a decent night's sleep." He spoke in English, but he had no doubt that at least some of the men around them could understand.

Finstock glared at him.

Lydia went to make room for Stiles, but Finstock said firmly, "You should sit next to me."

Stiles tried, but the man next to Finstock wouldn't move. Wouldn't look at Stiles either.

Finstock solved this by shoving against the man till he shifted over.

Stiles squeezed into the space provided only to find that the man suddenly found he was needed elsewhere. Suddenly everyone in the immediate vicinity was gone, leaving just Stiles, Lydia, and Finstock.

No one brought him any kind of plate or utensil.

Finstock handed his dirty plate over. "It's the best you'll get."

Lydia tried to offer Stiles a dish of fruit, but Finstock intercepted it. "Let me get that for you."

Stiles looked at him oddly. Since when had Finstock ever served Stiles anything? Once a new group of men had come in and utensils had been set in front of them, Stiles started to get suspicious.

So, to test a theory, and because he was never one to take anything sitting down, Stiles scooted down towards his nearest Italian neighbor. He stretched out a hand and pretended to reach for some bread. In a flash, the man was up off the bench, backing away and warily watching Stiles's movement out of the corner of his eye. So it wasn't just that they were ignoring him, they were actively avoiding him.

"What's going on? Do they think I'm contagious?"

Finstock frowned. "Fucking Templars." He intercepted another platter that would have bypassed Stiles.

Lydia frowned. "I did not know their reaction to an effervescent would be quite so extreme. This is bizarre, but I suppose given their beliefs. . ." She trailed off, looking at Stiles thoughtfully.

"What? What did I do?"

"Something highly offensive, apparently."

Finstock snorted. "He was born."

Stiles then decided to follow the Templars' lead and ignored them in turn. When they were finished, instead of taking his plate and utensils to the kitchen, like everyone else's, Finstock threw them in the trash.

"What are you doing?"

"You are an anathema to the Templars."

Lydia nodded her understanding.

Finstock continued. "Anything in contact with a preternatural's mouth must be destroyed or ritually cleansed."

"Seriously? Why the hell did they bring me here, then?" Stiles frowned. "And one of them must have carried me here."

"A professional handler," answer Finstock.

Lydia gave Finstock a very long look. "How long did Zoya Stilinski work for the Templars?"

"Long enough."

Stiles looked at him thoughtfully. "And how long did you?"

Before Finstock could answer, though, someone began walking purposefully toward them. A Templar, but this one seemed perfectly capable of looking Stiles fully in the face.

Finstock stood at Stiles's side. Leaning over, he whispered. "Whatever you do, don't tell him about the kid." Then he straightened.

The man bared his teeth when he reached them, bowing slightly. If it was a smile, it was the creepiest Stiles had ever seen – and he lived with a pack of werewolves. "Welcome to Italy."

"You are _speaking_ to me?"

"I am the preceptor here. You are considered a small risk to _my_ eternal soul."

His English was impeccable. "You're not Italian, are you?"

"I am a Templar."

This seemed to be all the explanation he was willing to give. "If you would all please follow me?"

Stiles looked at his companions. Lydia shrugged and Finstock nodded, but didn't say anything. Stiles figured there was nothing to do but play along.

"Sure," he said.

He led them through the temple.

"How do you like Italy, My Soulless One?"

Stiles blanched. "Soulless" was not a term used anymore – by anyone. At one point there had been a theory that preternaturals had no soul and that was why they could turn supernaturals human. This theory had gone away with the times and not even the Catholic Church referred to preternaturals as soulless anymore. The Templars were still part of the Church, weren't they? Why would he use such an antiquated term?

Stiles decided to ignore it. "I read somewhere that the Templars have an initiation ritual involving a dead cat and a rubber duck. Is that true?"

"We do not discuss the secrets of the brotherhood with outsiders. Certainly not with a soulless."

"Well, certainly, you _would_ like to keep that a secret." The preceptor looked annoyed, but did not rise to the bait. Stiles relished his small victory.

The rest of the temple was just as richly furnished and religiously decorated as the parts Stiles had already seen. There was a certain sparseness to the design and a complete absence of personal items that gave the place the unmistakable aura of a monastery despite is luxuriousness.

After a tour, they began the walk back to their rooms. The preceptor refused to get a servant or brother to lead them back, so they were relying mostly on instinct and hope to get to the correct rooms.

"Well, he was chatty."

Finstock glanced at Stiles. "Too much. He doesn't intend to let us leave."

"What? He told us we could explore the city on our own," responded Stiles.

The preceptor had indeed given them the offer.

"We would be followed. They see you as a soulless demon. The Templars couple war with faith. They don't think you're capable of salvation, but you're a useful weapon."

It was becoming evident that Finstock had far more exposure to the Templars than Stiles had previously thought.

"If it's so dangerous, why did you agree with me when I decided to come here?"

"There are different kinds of danger. Good warriors take care of their weapons. And the Templars are very good warriors."

Stiles glared. "And why do they call me soulless? I thought the Church stopped that ages ago."

Finstock sighed, as if he were trying to teach a particularly stupid child. "They were excommunicated decades ago – the entire brotherhood. They still follow Catholic teachings and doctrine – or what it was at the time they were excommunicated anyway – but they are not officially part of the Church. Too radical and too militant."

Supernaturals had been categorically excommunicated from the Church when they first came out to the general public. Preternaturals, who were presumably known to the church, had not been given the same treatment, though. Apparently the Templars thought differently on the subject. Suddenly Italy didn't seem like the safe choice anymore.

* * *

Agent Chris Argent had been hunting for three nights and two days with very little sleep. The only thing he'd gotten was a lead as to the whereabouts of Laura Hale's stolen item, from a ghost agent assigned to the potentate. Argent sent Derek off to explore the lead further, arranging it so the Alpha thought it was his own idea, of course.

The Beta rubbed at his eyes and looked up from his desk. He wouldn't be able to keep Derek in the States much longer. Derek was restless knowing that Stiles was out in the world both upset with him and potentially in danger.

The door to the office creaked open, but the man who walked in wasn't Derek Hale. He was clearly in disguise, but when Argent sniffed the air, there was no doubt as to his identity – werewolves had an excellent sense of smell.

"Good morning, Peter. How are you?"

Peter Hale – holder of a seat on the President's Shadow Council and most commonly known as the dewan – pushed his hood back and glared.

"Not so loudly. No need to broadcast my presence here."

"So not official, then? You haven't come to challenge for Newark, have you? Derek is out." The dewan was one of the few werewolves in the country who could give Derek a fight and reputedly had done so – over a baseball game of all things.

"Why would I want to do a thing like that?"

Argent shrugged.

"The trouble with you pack types is you always assume us omegas want what you got."

"Tell that to the challengers."

"Well, the last thing I need is the additional responsibility of a pack."

"Then why are you here?"

"I have something for you. It cannot be known that I am involved."

He pulled out a few sheets of paper. The top was an email. It was short and to the point and, rather indiscreetly, it had been signed.

"A vampire extermination mandate. Ordering a death bit on Stiles Stilinski's neck. Amusing considering he cannot be bitten, but I suppose it's the thought that counts."

"I understand it is just their turn of phrase."

"As you say. A death order is a death order and it is signed by the _potentate_, no less."

Argent let out a deep sigh. "Was he acting under the authority of the President?"

"Oh, no. But he did use his government email to send it. And he did it with his official computer. He never did learn to keep up with advances in technology. Probably didn't even realize how stupid that was."

"Why bring it to BUR's attention?"

The dewan looked a little offended by the question. "I am not bringing it to BUR; I am bring it to the Newark Pack. Stiles, regardless of gossip, is still married to a werewolf. And I am still the dewan. The vampires simply cannot be allowed to indiscriminately kill one of our own. It's as bad as poaching clavigers."

"But it cannot be known that the information came from you?"

"Well, I do still have to work with him."

"Of course." Argent was surprised. It was rare for the dewan to involve himself in pack business. For all that Derek and the dewan were family (Argent's head spun thinking of the sheer number of Hale family members who had become supernatural – it was incredibly rare to have more than 2 or 3, much less extended family), they didn't really like each other. Argent wondered if Peter might not have a soft spot for Stiles.

With his usual inappropriate timing, Derek returned at that very moment.

The dewan ignored the glare Derek was giving him. "I am under the impression that he may have also persuaded the Manhattan hive or he wouldn't have sent the order. It's recent though. I don't think they were trying to kill initially."

Argent frowned. "Yes, well –"

"Official extermination order. On my _husband_!"

One would think, after twenty-odd years, Argent would be used to Derek's yelling. He still winced.

"I'll drag that asshole out at fucking high noon – you see if I don't."

Peter and Argent continued their conversation as if Derek weren't there.

"Really, by rights, preternaturals are BUR's jurisdiction."

The dewan tilted his head in mild agreement. "Yes, well, the vampires seem to be taking matters into their own hands regardless. So far at the potentate is concerned, the kid is not a preternatural and thus no longer BUR's jurisdiction. And if they cannot find the child, they'll just get Stiles."

Argent often wondered how the dewan came by some of his information. If it weren't for Derek, Argent would almost think that the Hale family had an extra supernatural power for gossip. If Laura and Peter ever teamed up, the whole country would be in trouble. How did the dewan even know about the child?

"_That is my husband_. Chris, were you aware of this and didn't tell me?" He clearly didn't require an answer. "That's it. I'm leaving."

Argent ignored him. Turning to the dewan, he clasped his hand. "Thank you for the information."

"Keep my name out of it. This is between Newark and the vampires."

Argent turned back to Derek. "We have to find Laura."

Derek sobered slightly at the abrupt change in subject. "Why is that vampire never around when you need her, but always around when you don't?"

"It is an art form."

Derek sighed. "Well, I can't help you find the vampire, but I do know where the potentate has the object stashed."

"The ghost overheard something?"

"Saw a map, actually. I thought we could go steal it before I go get Stiles."

"And you still haven't told me where you sent Jackson."

"It's possible I was too drunk to remember."

"It's possible, but I think not."

Derek ignored him. "It should be fun, this reacquisition."

Argent turned to look at him.

"Well, if you like swimming."


	14. Chapter 14

Stiles, Lydia, and Finstock made their way to the front entrance of the temple and out into the city.

Finstock was suspiciously familiar with the city, leading them unerringly throw crowds of people. Regardless of their steady pace, Stiles noticed something amiss.

"We're being followed, aren't we?"

Lydia nodded.

"Really, if they wanted to hide, they shouldn't wear those stupid gowns."

Finstock corrected him. "Holy Tunics of Piety and Faith, Stiles."

"Nightgowns," insisted Stiles firmly.

They walked on.

"I counted six. What about you both?" Stiles spoke in a low voice, although their followers were still a considerable distance behind them and well out of earshot.

Lydia pursed her lips. "Yes, about that many."

"I don't suppose we can get away from them."

"I doubt it."

They arrived at a post office. Lydia assured them that Melissa would have sent their things there. After days without anything of his own, Stiles was glad to have his things once again. Stiles made to sign for them when the clerk looked down and made a face when he read Stiles's name.

"Stilinski?"

"Yes."

"Here." He shoved a letter into Stiles's hand.

The letter was not, as Stiles had originally suspected, from Melissa. It was from Erica, of all people.

Stiles grinned. "Just goes to show that Erica will always find me."

Finstock rolled his eyes.

Inside, besides a short letter from Erica with no substantial news (well, to Stiles. Apparently she started a new shoe trend which had Lydia blanching), there was another small scrap of paper.

It wasn't signed, but Stiles recognized the writing.

_I was afraid to call. I've been told you're in danger. Your favorite named agent wants you to know that there is a bite edict out. Be careful. I would be there now, but my sister is missing. I think it is connected to you. I know you can take care of yourself and I'm trying to give you space to do that. I know you're angry at me and you have every right to be. I was wrong and then I handled it wrong. I will do whatever I have to make it up to you. I hope you'll forgive me. I love you._

If anyone really wanted to figure out who the letter was referencing, it wouldn't be hard. But to a casual observer, the identities were vague enough.

Stiles wasn't very concerned about that.

"Oh," he said, because that was all he could think to say. "Dammit."

Stiles stared straight ahead, willing himself not to start crying right then and there. There weren't a lot of people who could make him cry, but the ones who could made him cry easily.

"Stiles, what's wrong? Isn't this a good thing?" asked Lydia.

"Bastard," choked out Stiles.

Lydia was at a loss.

"I was doing well angry at him. I'm _still_ angry at him! But he admitted he was wrong. I can count on one had the number of times he's admitted he was wrong, much less wrote it down somewhere permanent. He knows he's fucked up and he's actually sorry. He's _actually sorry_! Bastard."

Lydia still looked lost. Finstock shook his head.

Stiles realized he was making a spectacle of himself and took a deep breath to calm himself.

They headed outside. Finstock's attention shifted.

Stiles followed his gaze. Four young men were headed their way.

"Those are definitely _not_ Templars," said Lydia with conviction.

"Drones?"

"Drones."

This time the drones looked to be taking no chances – each man held a long knife and walked with purpose.

The drones attacked. Stiles whipped out his baseball bat to deliver a blow, only to be deflected by a knife. Lydia hit one of them with a bag. Finstock dodged a knife slicing down toward him and punched one of them in the stomach.

Quicker than Stiles would have thought possible, though, the drones had him disarmed, bat rolling away. Lydia was thrust to the ground. Stiles thought he heard the woman's head hit the ground and she certainly didn't look to be moving anytime soon. Finstock kept struggling, but he was not as young as he once was and was certainly older than his opponents.

Two of the drones held Stiles between them, while the third, having determined Lydia was no longer a threat, brandished the knife with the clear intention of slitting Stiles's throat.

"Tell us where the kid is or you're dead. No torture, no bargaining. This is it. This is your only chance."

Stiles writhed in the grip of his captors, kicking out and wriggling as much as possible, making it difficult for them to steady him for the knife. Finstock, seeing his imminent peril, fought harder, but death seemed inevitable. Or at least a great deal of pain.

But then a very odd thing happened.

A tall masked man, wearing a hoodie with the hood pulled up despite the heat, leapt into the fray and appeared to be on _their_ side.

The unexpected champion was clearly quite strong. He was quite liberal in use of his fist and Stiles's captors were feeling the brunt of it.

Finding the drones distracted, Stiles jerked a knee into a very sensitive area of one, while twisting violently and trying to shake off the others' grip. The one he kneed backhanded him across the mouth and Stiles felt a burst of pain before tasting blood.

The masked man reacted swiftly to that, jabbing at the man's knee. Stiles heard a wet crunch and guessed the man's knee had been dislocated. He crumpled.

The drones regrouped, leaving only one holding Stiles while two went back on the defensive, facing off against the new threat. Stiles liked these odds much better. He went limp, throwing his captor off balance. Stiles then braced both feet and thrust backward, knocking both himself and the drone to the ground. Once there, they proceeded to roll about gracelessly on the stone. Stiles finally had reason to be grateful for his husband's fondness for rolling around in bed (well, other than the obvious), because it gave him practice in wrestling a man stronger than himself.

Then, like the knights they had once been, the Templars were upon them. The drones were forced to flee. Stiles had to admit Templar attire looked less ridiculous behind flashing blades.

Stiles struggled to his feet just in time to see his hooded defender run off. Clearly he liked being mysterious, or disliked Templars, or both.

When they finally arrived back at the temple, they parted ways. Stiles was bored, though, and didn't want to be alone with his thoughts about Derek. Instead, he decided to explore.

It was, he admitted, probably not the most intelligent decision in his life. But how often is one given the opportunity to investigate ancient passageways in sacred temples in Italy?

He took steep and slightly wet stairs and ended up in an undecorated hallway that ended in a small room.

The only piece of furniture in the room was a small pedestal which held a jar. The door was locked, but it was glass, so Stiles could see through. He shifted around till he could tell what was in the jar and then became rather queasy.

The jar held a severed human hand. It was floating in some liquid, probably formaldehyde.

"Stilinski, what the hell?"

Stiles jumped in surprise.

"Finstock!"

"What are you doing down here?"

Stiles ignored the question. "Come look at this. They have a human hand in a jar in the middle of an empty room. Isn't that odd?"

"Yes." Finstock didn't come over, only nodded as if he were used to such a phenomenon.

"Is it common? To keep a jar full of hand?"

"For the Templars."

"Uh, why?"

"It is a relic. Should the temple come under serious threat from the supernatural, the preceptor will break the jar and use the relic to defend the brotherhood."

"Is it the body part of some saint?"

"They have those too, I think. In this case it is an _unholy_ relic – a weapon. The body part of a preternatural."

Stiles shut his mouth. He was surprised he hadn't been drawn to the hand as he had to the mummy. They proceeded the rest of the way to their rooms in silence.

Finstock stopped Stiles before he entered. "Your mother was fully cremated. I made absolutely certain."

Stiles swallowed silently and then said, "Thank you."

He nodded once, his face oddly impassive.


	15. Chapter 15

Much to Derek's annoyance, the acquisition operation, as Argent had termed it, was taking longer than intended. Impatient to be off after his husband, the Alpha was instead stalking back and forth in his office, on hold with the President's secretary.

He was still unsure how Argent had, in fact, managed to keep him in New York for this long. Betas - his anyway - were mysterious creatures with strange powers. Powers that seemed to involve a lot of manipulation and guilt. Effective, unfortunately.

Argent sat on an uncomfortable couch and watched his Alpha pace.

"I still don't see why I have to talk to him, of all people."

Argent rubbed his temples. It was nearing the afternoon of his third day awake in a row and he was beginning to feel the effects. He was drawn and tired and wanted nothing more than return home and sleep for a few days. Instead he was stuck dealing with an increasingly edgy Alpha. "I've already told you – you need sundowner authorization and more than what the FBI can provide here."

"Yes, but couldn't you have come and gotten it for me after?"

"No, I couldn't." Argent sighed. "This has gotten too complicated. Stop bitching."

Derek glared, but didn't say anything else. Argent was right. It _had_ gotten too complicated. Once they discovered the location of the stolen object, they'd sent a junior BUR agent down to assess the place. The kid had come back soaking wet and in an absolute panic, justly earned, as it turned out. Their quick theft and retrieval had turned into something far more problematic.

Argent liked to look on the practical side of any given situation. "At least now we know why Laura freaked out, pulled in all her drones, and ran."

"I didn't even realize roves could swarm, but I suppose they have the same protective instincts as hives."

"And Laura is powerful and has a large number of drones. She's liable to be overprotective when one is stolen."

"I can't believe I'm stuck here dealing with this. I should be finding Stiles, not one of Laura's drones."

"The potentate wanted Laura panicked for a reason. Stiles is that reason. So essentially, this _is_ your problem and you have to deal with it before you leave. Stiles can take care of himself."

"I know." Derek sighed and then grunted, "Vampires."

"Exactly." Argent's calmness covered genuine worry. He had met Scott only once or twice, but he liked him. He seemed to be Laura's favorite, but for a reason. He was calm, capable, and smart – although he occasionally acted before thinking. And Stiles liked him too. For the potentate to kidnap him was unheard of. The greatest unwritten law of the supernatural set was that you didn't steal someone else's human. Werewolves did not poach clavigers, because the key-keepers were vital to the safety of the greater population. And vampires didn't take each other's drones, because, quite frankly, one doesn't interfere with someone else's food source. And yet, this was exactly what happened. Poor Scott.

"The President is on the line," said a voice over the phone.

Even though he couldn't be seen, Derek straightened up.

Argent looked at him. "Be polite."

Derek glared. "I've met him before, you know."

"_I know._ That is why I'm reminding you."

Derek ignored him. "Hello, Mr. President."

In the end, the President granted Derek sanction in his attempt to rescue Scott. He refused to believe the potentate was involved, but if, in fact, a drone _had_ been kidnapped, he thought it only right that Derek, in his capacity as head of the BUR offices for New York and New Jersey and chief sundowner for the East Coast, rectify the situation. It was untenable, he claimed, given his experience with vampire loyalty and trust, even among roves, that any vampire would steal another's drone.

"But suppose, Mr. President, just this once, it has accidentally occurred? And that Laura Hale has swarmed as a result?"

"Well, then, do what you should as an FBI agent, Mr. Hale."

"I hate politicians," Derek commented to Argent as they readied themselves later that evening.

Scott, they had learned, was imprisoned inside a rather odd contraption. Derek was still annoyed that this installation had escaped BUR's notice. It was, according to the junior BUR agent, a man-sized sphere with a large tube coming out of its top. The tube was to conduct breathable air, because it had been sunk into the middle of the East River under the Brooklyn Bridge. Not unsurprisingly, it had sunk not just into the water, but some way down into mud and garbage as well.

When they arrived, Derek dove quickly into the filthy water. Argent moved slightly more cautiously. Together, though, they made their way under the bridge.

Since they knew what they were looking for, they managed to find the breathing tube easily. It was stretched upward well out of the high-tide mark. It looked as though it could have also been used as drop for food and water. At least the potentate had no intention of actually killing Scott. Still, it was carelessly done. If the tube fell, a boat crashed into it, or a curious animal got stuck, Scott would suffocate to death.

Derek dove down to investigate. This was hard to do in wolf form and it was hard to see much in the blackness of the river. But he had supernatural strength and night vision helping him. He surfaced looking pleased with himself, tongue lolling.

Derek, being Derek and good at such things, then changed, right there in the river from dog-paddling wolf to large man treading water. He did so flawlessly, so that his head never went under water. Argent suspected him of practicing in the bathtub.

"Scott is alive, but I have no idea how to get him out, short of breaking it and dragging him out. Do you think he'd survive?"

Argent resigned himself and changed forms. He was not as good as Derek and he sunk slowly, until he bobbed up, sputtering.

"We could raid Lydia Martin' lab, but I think time is of the essence. If we can open it fast enough, we should be able to pull him out with relatively little harm."

"Good, because if I do damage him, Stiles will never let me hear the end of it. Once he decides to speak to me again, that is. I think he'd leave me if Scott decided he liked men."

Argent rolled his eyes. "On the count of three? One, two, three."

Both men inhaled deeply and dove down.

Soon, Argent caught sight of Scott's panicked expression. He could do nothing to help free himself. Instead he fought the inrushing water, trying to keep his head afloat and titled toward the air tube as long as possible.

Even in all the chaos, Argent heard several odd noises and, moments later, saw from the corner of his eye as Derek began wildly thrashing about. But Argent maintained his focus on Scott. He grabbed the drone and shot toward the surface.

He emerged, panting, Scott clutched against him. The young man was limp and Argent could think of nothing but the need to get him to shore as quickly as possible. He plowed through the water and dragged the drone out.

Argent looked back and noticed Derek in a battle with three assailants. Derek was in his Anubis Form, his head a wolf, but his body still human. This allowed him to tread water, but still bite. It seemed to be working. His opponents were human, and, while armed with silver knives, they were not as adept at striking and swimming.

Argent returned his attention to Scott. He tried to force the water out of his lungs.

A loud cry caused him to look up, although not stop his attentions to Scott's survival. The figure of a man ran along the bridge, faster than was humanly possible. The figure stopped and, in one quick movement, drew a gun and fired down into the churning mass of combatants.

Argent's protective instincts flared up. He had no doubt that the vampire, for that it what the newcomer must be, was firing silver bullets at _his_ Alpha. Desperately, he continued CPR, hoping that Scott would revive so he could go to Derek's aid.

Behind him, Derek behaved in an unexpectedly sensible manner. Abandoning his fight, the Alpha dove under the river and began swimming towards his Beta.

Unfortunately, with his first target underwater, the vampire simply moved on to the second best option. He fired at Argent and his charge as they hunched unprotected. The bullet whizzed by close to Argent's head. He curled himself over the drone's body, shielding it with his own.

Then Scott began to cough and sputter, spewing out river water. The drone's eyes opened, and he stared up into the werewolf's sympathetic face.

"Do I know you?" Scott asked between coughs.

Derek reached the steps at that point and hauled himself up, still in Anubis Form. He reached for his neck, unclasping a leather case safely fastened there, and pulled out his gun – a sundowner weapon. He fired.

He missed.

"I'm Chris Argent. We have met before. Remember the cell phone service at Manhattan?"

"Where's-?" But Scott did not get to finish his thought, because the vampire's return shot struck the drone in the stomach. Scott's sentence stopped mid-question with a cry, as his body, emaciated from weeks in confinement, convulsed.

Derek's second shot did not miss. The vampire fell from the bridge with a shout, hitting the river with a large splash. His agents – or were they drones? – swam over to him. From the resulting cries, what they discovered was not to their liking.

Derek was focused on the scene in the water, but Argent was once again worried about Scott. The drone was dying. There was really only one solution and no one, in the end, was going to be happy with it.

Taking a deep breath, the Beta reaching into the wound, fishing around for the bullet with no care for Scott's feelings. He conveniently fainted from the pain.

Derek came to kneel next to them. He gave a confused whine, unable to talk.

"I'm trying to get the bullet out," Argent explained.

Another whine.

"It's _silver_. It must come out."

Derek began shaking his head and backing slightly away.

"He is dying. You have no other choice. You're already in Anubis Form. You might as well make the attempt."

Derek continued to shake his head. Argent fished out the bullet, wincing in pain.

"Don't you think Laura would rather have him still alive, or at least partly alive, than dead? I am aware it is not done. Unheard of, even. But what else can we do? You have to try."

The Alpha cocked his head to one side. Argent knew what he was thinking. If this failed, Scott would be found dead, savaged by a werewolf. How could they possibly explain that to anyone?

"You metamorphosed a female recently. You can do this. Stiles would want you to try."

Even with a wolf's head, Derek could glare. Argent knew it was a low blow, but he would use whatever tools were in his arsenal for this. With a small shrug that said a clearly as any words that if this didn't work, he would never forgive himself, Derek bent over the boy's neck and bit.

Normally, metamorphosis was violent. Scott was so weak and had lost so much blood, though, that Derek was able to take it slow. He had more self-control than any other Alpha Argent had ever met. It seemed to take a very long time. But Scott kept breathing and as long as Scott kept breathing, Derek kept going. He was not to be distracted even by the arrival of their opponents.

Argent stood to defend their positions, prepared to change form if necessary. But the three men who emerged were obviously uninterested.

"We have no reason to fight further. Our master is dead."

Argent sniffed, trying to catch the scent of the vampire over the smell of human blood and putrid water. The horror of it hit him broadside and he almost stumbled. It was a scent only emitted by one man. Argent could have guessed the identity of the vampire from that scent, even if he were not already familiar with its owner – the potentate. Or, as the vampire was dead and no longer a denizen of the Shadow Council, Argent supposed he must be remembered now under his old name, Deucalion.

"The President," he said to his Alpha, "is _not_ going to be happy about this. Why the hell didn't he send someone else to do his dirty work?"

Derek didn't look up.

A vampire was dead. There weren't enough of them around to forgive a transgression like that, even from BUR's chief sundowner in the area. The potentate was a rove, so at least there was no major hive connection. But there would be blood payment due to the greater community regardless. And even if the vampire showed himself a traitor, his relationship with the government left a gap that the President would find hard to fill. He had served as advisor since the country was founded. For someone like that to die because he had made a mistake, because Stiles Stilinski-Hale, soulless, had a child (_somehow_ – Argent was still puzzled) with a vampire and he panicked, was a loss to every citizen. Even the werewolves would mourn him, in their way.

Well, except for possibly Derek.

Just before dawn, Scott's eyes opened. He howled out in pain and confusion as his form shifted and he lay there, a lovely chocolate-brown wolf.

"He's yours to deal with."

"Where are you going?" Argent yelled after Derek's rapidly retreating form.

"I have a boat to catch and a husband to apologize to. You can sort this out." Derek didn't even break stride.

"Oh yes, certainly, feel free to depart. I've only got a drone changed into a werewolf, a dead potentate, and a missing, but probably irate rove who is also _your sister_! I am certain I've had Alphas leave me with worse messes, but I can't recall them."

"You'll be fine!" Derek shouted again, headed presumably to find a cab.

Argent decided not to remind him that he was naked.


	16. Chapter 16

Stiles took a moment before breakfast to drag Finstock into a secluded corner.

"Stilinski, I don't think your husband would approve. Or your father."

Stiles didn't rise to the bait. Mostly. He glared a little bit.

"We need to get a message to the President about this relic business. Or at least to BUR. I can't believe you knew and never told anyone. Still, I know now and so should the government. Imagine using preternatural body parts as weapons. Just think of what they could do if they realized mummification worked."

Finstock shrugged, but didn't say anything.

"We've managed to keep the mummification stuff from even Lydia. But we can't let anyone know that they're useful as a weapon. If the Templars are using dead preternatural body parts and they realize they could preserve a whole body in a way easier than a tank of formaldehyde, I'm in trouble. Right now it's only natural decomposition and that fact that it has to be preserved in formaldehyde that's keeping it as a special use weapon." Stiles wrinkled his nose. "This is a matter of supernatural security. We cannot risk Italy and other supernaturally conservative countries figuring out the God-Breaker Plague."

Finstock let out a very long, very annoyed sigh. But from his expression, he seemed to agree with Stiles.

"You need to pretend to be sick to get out of this picnic or whatever the preceptor is dragging us to. Get a message to Argent. He'll know what to do. I haven't seen a single phone around this place or I'd try to do it myself."

"Stiles, you shouldn't be traveling around without me."

"I'll be fine. Lydia filled by bat back up. Plus, I'll have all the Templars with me. As far as I can tell, they may not want to look at me, but they'll protect me." Stiles paused. "You could give me one of your guns."

Finstock did not seem to like that idea. "You barely know how to shoot."

"I do to! You know my dad took me to a range a few times."

"Yes, a few times. Ten years ago."

Stiles glared. Finstock threw up his hands. He left the room, with the intention of faking sick, but without giving Stiles one of his guns.

* * *

Chris Argent spent the last hour before dawn coping with the consequences of Scott's sudden change into a werewolf and Deucalion's sudden change into a corpse. He began by seeking out the closest safe house. He headed towards Boyd and Erica's apartment.

He banged on the door a bit before Erica finally appeared. Curiously, despite the hour, she looked wide awake, although tired and drawn.

He laid Scott down on a couch and reached to draw the curtains over the window, just as the sun's first rays peeked above the horizon. Scott's previously still form stiffened and then began to shudder and convulse.

"Erica, you probably don't want to be in here for this. Would you wake up Boyd for me?"

Erica rolled her eyes, but turned to leave the room.

He bent low, bracing the shuddering form of the wolf with his own body, curling around him. It was partly Beta instinct, to protect a new member of the pack, but it was also sympathy. The first time was always the worst, not because it got any better, but because it was so unfamiliar an experience.

"Chris? What the hell is going on?" Boyd had come in.

"A lot. I've got a new wolf and no Alpha. Do you have any raw meat?"

"I think we have some steak." Boyd left without any further questions.

Argent smiled. He fell so easily back into his old role as claviger, doing what needed to be done for the werewolves around him.

Scott's chocolate fur was beginning to retreat up to the top of his head. Clutching his form, Argent could feel as well as hear Scott's bones breaking and re-forming. It was a long and agonizing shift. It would take the young man decades to master any level of competency. Rapidity and smoothness were markers of both dominance and age.

Finally Argent held nothing but an armful of naked Scott, shivering and looking forlorn.

"What? Where?" He pushed weakly against the Beta's arms. His nose was twitching as though he needed to sneeze. "What is going on?"

Argent relaxed his embrace and sat back next to the couch. Boyd came over with a blanket and covered Scott up. Argent was pleased to note that Scott seemed to be entirely healed from the wound.

"Who are _you_?" Scott focused fuzzily on Boyd.

"I'm Boyd. Used to be a claviger to Derek. Now I'm just a BUR agent."

"We'll be safe here for the day." Argent kept his voice low and calm.

"Is there some reason we need to be? Safe, I mean."

"How much do you remember?"

Scott jerked and fear flooded into his eyes. "There's a mandate out! I found out that there is a. . . Oh, crap. I was supposed to report in! I missed the appointment with Laura." He made as if to try and rise.

Argent held him back easily.

Scott turned on him frantically. "You don't understand – she'll swarm if I don't make it back. She knew I was going after the potentate. How could I have gotten caught? I'm an idiot. I know better than that…" He trailed off. "How long was I down there?"

Argent sighed. "She did swarm."

"Oh, no." Scott's face fell. "All that work. All those agents pulled out of covert placement. It'll take years to reintegrate them. She's going to be so very disappointed in me."

Argent tried to distract him. "So, what do you remember?"

"I remember being trapped under the East River and thinking I would never escape." Scott brushed a hand over his face. "Then I remember water rushing in and waking in the darkness to shouting and gunshots. And then I remember a lot of pain."

"You were dying." Argent paused, searching for the right words. Here he was, hundreds of years old, and he could not explain to one boy why he had been changed against his will.

"Was I? Well, good thing I didn't. Laura would never forgive me." Scott sniffed, suddenly distracted. "Something smells amazing."

Argent gestured to the plate of raw steak sitting nearby.

Scott titled his head and then looked at Argent in confusion. "But it's not cooked."

Argent cleared his throat and shifted uncomfortably. "You know that dying thing? Well, it did take, in its way."

At which juncture, Argent had to watch Scott's eyes turn from dazed confusion to horrified realization. It was one of the saddest things he had ever seen in all his long life.

Both Boyd and Argent pretended not to notice Scott was crying.

* * *

The preceptor's picnic, as it turned out, was a little more elaborate than Stiles or Lydia had been led to believe. When their car parked out into the countryside, their host proudly announced that they would be having an Etruscan tomb picnic.

"What do you know of the Etruscans?" he whispered to Lydia.

"Only that they came before the Romans."

"Were they supernaturally based?" Stiles asked the next most important question.

The preceptor overheard him.

"Ah, My Soulless One, you ask one of the most troublesome questions about them. I think, given your peculiar skill set, you might…" He trailed off meaningfully, as if purposefully leaving the thought unfinished.

Stiles was confused, but only for a moment. "You think there was a preternatural focus to this culture?"

The preceptor didn't answer. Instead he asked, "Would you prefer to explore or eat first."

"Explore," Stiles answered immediately.

They came upon a statue of two figures. "What were they holding?" asked Lydia.

"The woman held an empty ceramic flask, it contents long dried up. The man was offering a piece of meat in his open palm. He was holding something very strange in his other hand." The preceptor was just waiting for them to egg him on for more details.

Stiles obliged.

"What was that?"

The Templar shrugged and fished out a chain that was around his neck. A small gold charm dangled from the end.

"An ankh?" Stiles was confused.

"From Egypt?" Lydia arched an eyebrow.

"Were the two cultures chronologically comparable?" Stiles struggled to remember the dates. This was not his area of study.

"It's possible they had some contact, but it is more likely that this came through trade with the Greeks."

Stiles studied the piece of gold closely, but didn't say anything.

The preceptor tucked the charm away and they commenced their picnic. It was silent.

"It is not a bad life here, is it, My Soulless One?" The preceptor spoke again, at last.

Stiles was forced to admit it wasn't horrible. "Not terrible. Italy _is_ a lovely country."

"You are – how do I say this politely – unwelcome back in America?"

Stiles wasn't going to correct hm. "That is a diplomatic was of putting it."

"Perhaps you might consider staying here with us. It has been a long time since we have had a preternatural in residence. We would obviously provide you better accommodations."

Stiles's face soured. "I have heard such an offer before."

The Templar tilted his head, watching him.

Since he seemed to be chattier, Stiles asked, "You would put up with devil spawn permanently in your midst?"

"We have done so before. We are God's best weapon against the supernatural threat. We do what needs to be done, no matter what the cost or personal risk. You would be very useful."

"I had no idea I was so appealing."

Lydia joined the conversation. "If that's the case why are you not equally welcoming to werewolves and vampires?"

"Because they are not born demons. To be born with eternal sin is not much more than to be born with original sin. The soulless suffer, as we all do, under the metaphorical cross, only for them there is no salvation. The vampires and werewolves, on the other hand, have chosen their path voluntarily. It is a matter of _intention_. They are offensive to God, for only he and his angels are allowed immortality." He spoke calmly, with no emotion, no inflection, and no doubt.

Stiles felt chilled. "Which is why you wish to see all supernatural dead?"

"It is our eternal crusade."

Stiles didn't have another response. Luckily, the Templars began packing up their things then and the preceptor walked away. Stiles pulled Lydia to the side.

"The ankh around his neck. Did you notice it had been repaired?"

Lydia shook her head. "Is that significant?"

Stiles had never told Lydia about the mummy or the broken ankh symbol. But in his experience, it was a sign of a preternatural.

"I think the man was a preternatural and the woman was a vampire and the offering of meat was for the werewolves."

"A harmonious culture? Really?"

"It would be arrogant to think we were the first."

Lydia looked at him oddly for a moment. "And how odd it is that it is a male preternatural with a female vampire, too."

Stiles shrugged, but he didn't have any further theories.

It was unfortunately well into nighttime before they were halfway back. Stiles felt very exposed and wondered if this wasn't some type of ruse by the Templars to use him as a kind of bait.

The vampire appeared out of nowhere, leaping onto the car. He was single-minded in his attack, heading straight for Stiles. Stiles had already thrown himself onto the floor.

The preceptor, suddenly brandishing a long, evil-looking wooden knife, gave a yell of pleasure and attacked. He was grinning – a real smile for the first time. Maniacal, but real.

The vampire lunged and wrapped his hands around Stiles's neck.

When he touched him, the vampire's fangs vanished and his strength became that of an ordinary human. This was, unfortunately, still enough to strangle him.

_I'm not ready to die_, thought Stiles. _I haven't yelled at Derek yet_. And then he thought of the child as his own child and not some inconvenience he couldn't explain for the first time. _And who will protect that boy? I can't die. I don't even know his name yet. He doesn't even know his name._

He heaved upward, pushing the vampire up and off.

And just then, something white hit the vampire crosswise so hard the Stiles heard bones breaking – after all, the vampire was currently mortal and lacking supernatural defenses. The vampire screamed in surprise and pain.

The hit broke his hold around Stiles's neck and Stiles fell back, panting hard.

The white thing resolved itself into the frenzied figure of a massive wolf, growling and thrashing against the vampire in a whirlwind of teeth and claws and blood.

Stiles caught a flash of ice-blue eyes as the wolf gave him one meaningful look before he hurled himself and the vampire out of the car – now missing a large portion of its roof – and hit the ground with a loud thud.

The car kept moving. With nothing else to occupy him, Stiles wondered if this white werewolf was the same as the white creature he'd seen from the helicopter, the one that had attacked the vampires on Melissa's roof. There was something very familiar about him. With a start, he realized that the werewolf, the white beast, and the man in the hood from the post office were all the same person and that he knew him. Knew him and was, at the best of times, not particularly fond of him – Derek's arrogant third in comment, Newark Pack's Gamma, Jackson Whittemore. He decided he'd been living with a werewolf pack too long if he could recognize him as a wolf if the middle of a battle when earlier, as a hooded man, he had not been able to place him at all.

"He must have been following and protecting me since Paris!" He said out lout to the uninterested Templars.

They ignored him.

Stiles wondered why his husband's third in command, whom neither he nor Derek particularly liked, was risking his life inside the borders of Italy to protect him. No werewolf with half a brain would voluntarily enter the stronghold of antisupernatural sentiment. Then again, there was some question as to the extent of Jackson's brains, as far as Stiles was concerned. There was really only one good explanation, though – Jackson would only be guarding him if Derek had ordered it.

Of course, Derek was an asshole who should have come himself. And, of course, he was a bastard for getting in the way when Stiles had taken steps to separate their business and take care of himself. But the timing meant he still cared enough to bark out an order to see him safe, even before he actually apologized.

He must still love him. _I think he might want me back_, Stiles thought. Whether or not he was going to forgive Derek, though, was a different story. One that probably hinged Stiles figured out how in the hell that child came into existence.


	17. Chapter 17

Eventually Scott slept and Argent could afford to do the same. They were safe at Boyd and Erica's apartment. The two werewolves dozed throughout the day and into the early evening. At some point, Erica left to check on the shoe shop and Boyd felt it safe enough to wake Argent.

"I got more meat," he explained as the Beta sawed off a chunk of raw steak and popped it into his mount.

Argent chew. "Thanks. What's the word on the street, then?"

"The potentate is dead. You and Derek killed him, didn't you?"

Argent put down his utensils and rubbed at his eyes. "Dammit. He left me with such a mess."

Boyd snorted. "One of his defining characteristics."

"Are the vampires very upset?"

Boyd looked at him incredulously. "None of them are out yet. Nor their drones. But the rumor is they are."

Argent stretched. "Well, I've been hiding out here too long. Time to face them, I suppose."

Without further ado, he swung the blanket-wrapped Scott up into his arms and headed out into the streets.

* * *

Finstock was out when they pulled back up to the front of the temple. Everyone seemed to be ignoring him, so Stiles made his way to the library. It was at least _supposed_ to be quiet there – better than the eerie silence the filled rooms because the Templars ignored him.

His peace did not last long.

"Good evening, Mr. Stilinski."

Stiles looked up, startled. "Victoria – I never did catch your last name. I thought you had been excommunicated. They let you back into Italy?"

Victoria walked into the room with the air of someone who had acquired the upper hand and was reveling in the state of affairs. "I found myself in possession of some, shall we say, negotiating power."

She came to stand hear him, looking down.

"The Templars are excommunicated as well. They may agree with the Church's reasons for excommunicating me, but they'd rather have the information I do than be without it. Plus, I'm family."

"Well," – Stiles was suddenly very nervous – "congratulations on coming back?" He was aware it came out more as a question than statement.

"I have my laboratory back," she continued proudly.

The preceptor came into the library.

"How are you feeling?" Stiles asked the preceptor, almost grateful to not have to talk alone with Victoria.

Not bothering to answer, the preceptor came over, crossed his arms, and looked down at Stiles as well. Eventually he spoke to him as though he was a misbehaving child. "I am confused, My Soulless One."

"Oh, yes?"

"Yes. Why didn't you inform us you had a child? We would have taken far greater care of you if we had known. Family is very important."

_Dammit_. Stiles shifted, wary. He grabbed his bat. "Would you? Do you mean you wouldn't have, for example, used me as bait in a vampire trap?"

The preceptor ignored his barb. "My daughter informs us that not only do you have a child, but that this child's mother is a vampire. Is this-"

Stiles held up his hand. "Do not even begin _that_ line of questioning with me. My _husband_ is a werewolf and despite all accusations to the contrary, I have not cheated on him. I am faithful. Even Derek, the bastard, has admitted it. I have been told the child _smells_ like he is mine and another's. I don't have proof and I don't know how it is possible."

The Templar snapped his mouth shut and nodded. Stiles wasn't convinced he believed him, but he didn't care. Then it hit him.

"Wait, did you say daughter?"

The preceptor waived his question away, but Stiles was suddenly looking back and forth between the preceptor and Victoria. Well, she had certainly inherited his creepy, maniacal smile.

"Adopted, actually, when my family was killed by werewolf beasts," Victoria corrected.

Well, maybe the maniacal smile was a learned trait.

"And you kicked her out?" Stiles asked. "I thought family was important."

"I only kicked her out when she chose something over us, her true family," answered a clearly irritated preceptor.

"I chose my daughter!" responded Victoria.

"Who wanted to become a demon!" The preceptor paused and collected himself. "Anyway, you are back. We do not need to rehash this argument."

"Yes, exactly," said Victoria, rubbing her hands together. "I think I may have figured out what happened, actually."

"Would you care to elaborate?"

She seemed taken aback by Stiles's calm acceptance. She didn't notice Stiles's hand fiddling with the top of his bat. He was also watching the preceptor as closely as the preceptor watched him.

"You're not angry that I told the Templars?"

Stiles was, but there was nothing he could do now and he was outnumbered. "I came here for answers. I would have had to tell them eventually. Still, you're a bit repulsive, aren't you?"

She just laughed at him.

"Yes, but I believe I am right. It is such an easy solution too. I don't know why it didn't occur to anybody. That Order offshoot abducted you and a number of supernaturals in New York maybe a year or so before the child would have been born. I assume you were unconscious for some of the time?"

Stiles nodded.

"And were any of the supernatural, do you know? I know chloroform works especially well on them."

Stiles did not want to know _how_ she knew this, but he nodded again regardless, thinking of Laura.

"They could have taken – how do I put this delicately – _samples_ from both of you. They could have inserted these into any number of volunteer through in vitro fertilization. The child is human, no? There wouldn't have been a problem with the pregnancy."

Stiles very much doubted that it was a volunteer, but the rest of the explanation sounded at least plausible. The boy was found with a different Order offshoot, after all. There were some things the Order had to have gotten lucky with, like how did they even know female vampires still had eggs (never mind, he really didn't want to know that) and didn't females usually take drugs to produce more before IVF (Stiles had spent a lot of time in an endless spiral of Wikipedia articles, okay?), but otherwise it sounded like something those scientists might do. Or at least, Stiles's limited exposure to them certainly made them seem capable of it. And wasn't that what they were trying to find, a way to study supernatural and see how they were created? Why not try to get one pregnant?

"Were they trying to create a new vampire, do you think?" Stiles asked.

Victoria shrugged. The preceptor was still watching him closely. "I was not familiar with them. I couldn't say."

"Well, he's human."

"Is he? Preternaturals don't manifest their abilities till they're 7. The child is not that old yet, is he?"

Stiles glared, but only half-heartedly. He hadn't thought of that. The child clearly wasn't a vampire, but he could be preternatural – or maybe something else.

"Well, I must tell Lydia immediately."

He stood up, but the preceptor blocked his path. "I am afraid that will not be possible, My Soulless One."

"Why not?"

"The female was treated for any injuries from earlier and released."

"What?"

"We have asked her not to return. We have asked the same of Mr. Finstock."

Stiles felt his heart sink low into his chest. He breathed in sharply through his nose.

He grabbed his bat more fully in his hand, but before he could use it, the library door opened. Summoned by some unseen signal, a large number of Templars clattered into the room. And they were _clattering_, for they were fully armored like the knights of the crusades.

Stiles knew when he was beat. "All this for me? You shouldn't have."

The preceptor glared and then, taking Victoria by the arm, left the library without responding to his sarcasm.

Stiles looked to his opponents. "Well then, gentlemen. Take me to your dungeon!" Might as well give a command he was reasonably confident would be obeyed.

* * *

Argent set his cargo down on the sofa in his office at BUR headquarters. Still unconscious, Scott didn't seem to mind that the couch was already covered in various piles of paperwork, books, and newspapers.

Argent got to work preparing formal statements for the press, calling in various operatives and agents and then sending them back out again on information-gathering missions, diplomatic interventions, and for food (he was hungry). He also called Newark instructing them to stay alert and armed. Who knew how the vampires might choose to retaliate? Usually, they were refined in their reactions, but killing one of them was, as a rule, not considered polite, and they might behave unfavorably. After that, Argent managed one productive hour of work before he was interrupted by the first of what he was sure would be a long line of offended persons. Unexpectedly, it was not a vampire, but a werewolf.

"Good evening, Peter."

The dewan hadn't bothered with a cloak this time. With no disguise and no attempt made to hide his displeasure, either, Argent had no doubt the dewan was officially representing the President's interests.

"Well, you screwed this one up, didn't you? Couldn't really have done any worse."

"How are you? Please sit down."

The dewan gave a disgusted look at the sleeping Scott. "Looks like you already have company. What is he – drunk?" He sniffed the air. "Have you both been swimming in the river?"

"It was entirely involuntary."

The dewan looked as though he was about to continue, but then he sniffed and turned back around. He bent over Scott and looked closely.

"He is unfamiliar. I know most of Newark Pack has been gone, but I think I remember them all. I'm not _that_ old."

"Ah, yes." Argent sat up straighter and cleared this throat. "Newark has gained a new pack member."

The dewan grunted, half pleased but trying to hide it with annoyance. "I thought he stank of my nephew. Well, a metamorphosis and a dead vampire all in one night. You all have been busy."

Argent set down his pen. "They are connected."

"Since when has killing vampires resulted in new werewolves?"

"Since vampires stole other vampire's drones, imprisoned them under a river, and then shot at them."

The dewan looked less like a gruff omega and more like a politician at that statement. He drew up a chair on the other side of the desk from Argent. "I think you'd better start explaining what happened."

When Argent was finished, the dewan looked a little stunned.

"Of course it will have to be corroborated. With the Deucalion's illegal kill order out on Stiles's head, Derek's motives are a little suspicious. Still, if what you say is true, he was within his rights as chief sundowner. Imagine stealing someone else's drone."

"You understand I have other difficulties?"

"Went off hunting the curse breaker, did he?"

Argent curled his lip and nodded.

"Alphas are so very difficult."

"My feeling exactly."

"I'll leave you to it." The dewan stood, but walked once more to down at Scott.

"Two successful metamorphoses in as many months. Newark may be in some trouble, but Derek is certainly successful at that. Pretty young, isn't he? He is going to bring down even more trouble. How much worse will it be to have the vampires think werewolves stole a drone away?"

Argent sighed. "Laura's favorite, no less."

Peter shook his head. "Mess of trouble. Good luck."

Just as the dewan was leaving, one of Derek's best BUR agents appeared.

"Not pretty out there, sir. There's just a couple of bar fights so far, but it could get ugly if some of the conservatives weigh in. 'None of this would have happened if we hadn't integrated' and all that."

"Any word on the vampires themselves?"

"Manhattan's queen has been silent since word of the potentate's death broke. If she thought she were in the right, she's be squawking official statements to the press."

"Yes, I agree. Her silence is good for us. How's BUR's reputation?"

"We're taking the fallout. He was working for us, not werewolfing, so he should have had more self-restraint. That's what they're saying."

Argent nodded.

"Those that like BUR are claiming he was within his rights as sundowner. Those that don't like it, don't like him, and don't like wolves – they're going to complain regardless. Not a whole lot will change that."

Argent rubbed at his neck. "That's about what I thought. Keep talking the truth as much as you can while you're out there. Let people know the potentate stole Laura Hale's drone. We cannot allow the President or the vampires to cover that up and we have to hope Scott and Laura corroborate the official story."

As he left, another agent came in to give him a phone message.

"This came in earlier for you. There was a big commotion in the background, so I couldn't hear most of what they were saying and then we got cut off. It was from Mr. Finstock and all I could make out was that Stiles was at a temple, I think, and to send help."

Argent waived the agent away and then banged his head down on the desk, groaning.

Then he caught a new scent which made him straighten up immediately. "Welcome back to Manhattan, Laura."


	18. Chapter 18

Stiles was left in isolation in a small dungeon room, only interrupted on occasion by Victoria. She seemed to come by mostly to bounce ideas off Stiles, although he wasn't really up to a scientific discussion. He supposed he was still better than the Templars. Warriors did not make good scientists.

"You know they gave me complete access to the records of their preternatural breeding program? They tried for nearly 100 years to determine how to successfully breed your species."

"Humans? Well that can't have been too difficult. I am still _human_, remember?"

Victoria ignored him. "You always breed true, but they wanted to speed up the on-set of abilities. Never could figure it out."

"So what happened?" Stiles couldn't help his curiosity.

"The program was stopped. It was actually one of the reasons they were excommunicated. Your mother was one of the last."

Stiles's eyes grew wide. "She was?" Well that would be something to pass on to his new son. _No worries. You're not the only one in the family that was bred by zealots as a kind of biological experiment, kid. So much for the family tree._

"Did the Templars raise her?"

Victoria gave him an odd look. "I do not know."

"Is that why they're keeping me? They want the child?"

She shrugged.

Soon after she seemed to get bored and left Stiles alone in his isolation again.

* * *

Laura stood I the doorway of Argent' office, dressed in jeans and a t-shirt – considerably less fashionably than Argent was used to.

"How are you this evening?"

"Fine. And you?"

"I must admit I've had better evenings. Welcome to BUR headquarters. Please come in."

The vampire paused for a moment on the threshold, catching sight of Scott's sleeping form. She made a slight gesture with one hand. "May I?"

Argent nodded. The question was a veiled insult, reminding them both of what had been taken from the vampire unjustly. Argent knew vampires had a limited sense of smell and no clear method of sensing right away that Scott was now a werewolf. But Laura seemed to realize it, anyway. She did not try to touch him.

"Where have you been this past week?"

Laura looked down a moment. "Chasing ghosts while pursued by demons, as it were."

He decided to push, just to see if he might elicit a more genuine reaction. "How could you disappear like that, just when Stiles needed you most?"

Laura's lip curled slightly and then she gave a humorless laugh. "Interesting query coming from Derek's Beta. You will forgive me if I see it as my right to ask the questions under such circumstances." She gestured at Scott.

Laura Hale was a woman who hid her real feelings with an excess of false ones. However, Argent was pretty certain that there, lurking under the clipped civility, was real, deeply rooted, and undeniably justified anger.

She took a seat. "I take it Derek has gone after _my_ dear Stiles?"

Argent nodded.

"Then he _knows_?"

"That he is in grave danger and the potentate is responsible? Yes."

"Oh, was that Duke's game? No wonder he wanted me swarming out of Manhattan. No, I mean to ask, Chris _dear_, if Derek knows what kind of child Stiles has sired."

"No, but he has accepted that Stiles did not cheat. He was just being stupid about it."

"It's quite a pity he could not have come to that realization sooner. I didn't realize Stiles would lose the protection of the pack or none of this would have happened."

"You think not? Vampires all over the world are trying to get the child – _your child_ – even when he was under werewolf protection. You would think the vampires might want to protect it, but they do not. It is interesting that you do not seem to want the child or Stiles dead either, since all of your kind do."

"Stiles is my friend. The vampires think the child is from a werewolf. But if he is mine, than - He. Is. _Mine_."

"Are your friends so infrequent that you betray the unanimous wishes of your own kind?"

"Listen to me carefully Beta," Laura's eyes were hard. "I am a rove so that I may make my own decisions: who to love, who to watch, and most importantly, what to wear."

"So, Laura, what is this child going to be?"

"No. You will explain _this_ first." The vampire gestured at Scott. "I am forced to swarm because my most precious drone is stolen from me – betrayed, as it turns out, by my own kind – only to return and find him stolen by your kind instead. Even my brother would acknowledge I am entitled to an explanation."

Argent agreed, so he told the vampire the truth, every detail of it.

"So it was death or the curse of a werewolf?"

Argent nodded.

Suddenly Scott put a hand on Laura's arm. He spoke softly. "I should not have allowed myself to get captured. I was careless. I did not think he would use me like that to get to you."

Scott rested his head on Laura's shoulder and Argent caught a glimpse of her face before it was hidden by a curtain of her hair.

_Oh shit, she really did love him, in a way_._ Dammit._ Love, of all eccentricities of the supernatural set, was the least talked about or expected. He wasn't sure what kind this was – romantic, familial, or something else entirely, but it was definitely there.

Argent was immortal; he knew what it was to lose a loved one. He turned away to give them a moment, just as someone banged on the door.

"What-?"

It was Argent's turn to look up at the ceiling with excess emotion.

"The President here to see Agent Hale."

The President marched through the door and spoke to Argent without breaking stride. "He isn't here, is he?"

"Mr. President!" Argent hurried from behind his desk to stand.

Laura even managed to stand. Scott looked panicked. He could not stand without exposing himself, as he was still only covered by the blanket. Argent came to the rescue. "You'll have to forgive Scott. He has had a trying night."

"So I have been given to understand. Is this the drone in question?" The President gave him a searching look. "The dewan said you were kidnapped, young man, and by our very own potentate. These are grave charges. Are they true?"

Scott, mouth slightly open in awe, managed only a mute nod.

The President's face expressed both relief and chagrin. "Well, at least Hale hasn't fucked that up." He turned a sharp eye on Laura.

"Would you say, Ms. Hale, that death was an appropriate punishment for the theft of another vampire's drone?" he inquired casually.

"I would say it is a bit extreme, but in the heat of the moment, I am given to understand accidents happen. It was not intentional and he was defending a life."

Argent couldn't believe his ears. Was Laura _defending_ Derek?

"Very well. No charges will be brought against him."

Laura started. "He also metamorphosed Scott!"

"Yes, yes. Excellent. Another werewolf is always welcome." The President bestowed his best politician's smile on Scott.

"But his _mine_!"

The President frowned. "I hardly see the need for such a fuss. You have plenty more, do you not?"

Laura stood for a moment, stunned, just long enough for the President to continue on.

"Hale has gone after his husband?" A nod from Argent. "Good, good. I need him back at shah. I cannot be down to just one person on the council right now. For centuries, Deucalion as advised this government unerringly. What could have driven such a man to such lengths?"

All around him, silence descended.

"That was _not _a rhetorical question."

Argent cleared his throat. "I believe it may have to do with a child that we believe may be Stiles's."

"Yes?"

Argent turned and looked pointedly at Laura.

Following his lead, the President did the same.

No one would ever accuse Laura Hale of fidgeting, but under such direct scrutiny, she did appear slightly flustered.

"You must understand that vampire records go back to Roman times and there is mention of only one similar child."

"Go on."

Argent chewed his lip. How could the howlers have not known of this? They were the keepers of history; they were supposed to know about everything.

"The kindest word we had for that creature was fur vitae insolubilis."

* * *

Stiles fought hard. It took some substantial negotiating to convince the scientist, but in the end all he needed was the right kind of logic.

"I am bored."

"This does not trouble me, Mr. Stilinski."

"This is my heritage we are dealing with, you realize?"

"So?"

"I may be able to find something you and the Templars have missed. Plus, you haven't had any response in trying to use me as bait to draw whoever is hiding the kid out yet, so you might as well make me useful for now."

No response.

"I can read Latin."

"Can you?"

"I _do_ have a doctorate in the supernatural. I'm telling you. I have excellent research skills."

"Will it keep you quiet?"

Stiles nodded enthusiastically.

"I'll see what I can do."

Later that day, two nervous young Templars came in carrying some ancient-looking scrolls and a bucket of lead tablets. They must have been under orders to oversee the security of these items, because instead of leaving, they locked the cell door and then sat and proceeded to embroider red crosses while he read. Stiles wondered if this was some kind of punishment or if embroidery was what the Templars did for fun. It would explain the general prevalence of embroidered red crosses everywhere. Laura, of course, had warned him. Stupid to realize it now that it was far too late.

He bypassed the scrolls in favor of the more intriguing lead squares. His Latin was rather rusty and he could have used a reference book, but he managed to decipher the first after some time and the others came easier after that. Most seemed to concern ghosts.

The next time he saw Victoria he commented on it. "Good afternoon. Thanks for letting me look at these. I didn't realize curse tablets were so focused on actual supernaturals. I thought they called upon the wrath of imaginary demons and gods, not the _real_ supernatural."

"Anything useful?"

"No. So far, they all have to do with hauntings. The Romans were very concerned with ghosts."

"Yes. I've noticed that myself."

Stiles went back to translating the next tablet. The moment he did, he knew he wasn't going to tell Victoria about this one.

_I call upon you, Thief of Endless Life, child of a Breaker of Curses, whoever you are, and ask that from this hour, from this night, from this moment, you steal from and weaken the vampire Primulus of Carisius. I hand over to you, if you have any power, this Sucker of Blood, for only you may take what he values most. Thief of Endless Life, I consecrate to you his complexion, his strength, his healing, his speed, his breath, his fangs, his grip, his power, his immortality. Thief of Endless Life, if I see him mortal, sleeping when he should wake, wasting away in his human skin, I swear I shall offer a sacrifice to you every year._

Stiles figured the term "Breaker of Curses" must correlate to the werewolf moniker for a preternatural, "curse-breaker", which meant the curse tablet was calling upon the child of a preternatural for aid. It was the first mention he had run across, however minor, of either an effervescent or a child of one. He wasn't certain about his translation of fur vitae insolubilis into "Thief of Endless Life", but it sounded more plausible than "Indestructible Life", which is what he had originally translated it as.

He went back to the tablet, reading it over and over again, wishing it might give him more of a clue as to what such a creature could do and how it came into existence. He supposed that this being was just as nonexistent as the gods of the netherworld that the other tablets called upon. Then again, it could be as real as the ghosts or vampires they were asked to fight against. It must have been such an odd age to live in, so full of superstition and mythology, to be ruled by the Caesar's empire hives and a bickering line of vampires.

He glanced at the two embroidering men and, not-so-subtly, tucked the tablet down the front of his shirt. Luckily for him, the Templars seemed to find their embroidery most absorbing.

He went on, scanning for the Latin phrase, but there seemed to be no mention of it. He weighed his options, wondering if he should mention it to Victoria. As it turned out, the preceptor brought his meal that evening, so he figure he might as well go straight to the source.

He took his time working around to the subject. Finally, he could wait no longer. "I found something interesting in your records today."

"Yes? I heard Victoria brought them to you. Which ones?"

He gestured slightly. "Oh, you know, one of the scrolls. It said something about a thief of endless life."

The preceptor nodded, but didn't look up.

"In Latin, it was 'fur vitae insolubilis'."

_That_ got a reaction. The preceptor stood so fast that he knocked over the little stool he had been sitting on.

"_What did you say?_"

"I see you've heard of them before. Perhaps you care to tell me where?"

Clearly in shock, the preceptor spoke as though his mouth were moving while his mind still coped with the revelation. "They're known to us only as legendary creatures, more dangerous than the soulless. They are feared by the supernatural for their ability to be both mortal and immortal at the same time. We have been warned to watch for them, although we have not yet encountered one in our recorded history. You believe that it what the child is?"

"What would you do with one if you caught it?"

"That would depend on whether or not we could control it. They cannot be allowed to roam free, not with that kind of power."

"What kind of power?" Stiles tried to sound innocently curious as he inched his free hand down the side of his stool, preparing to grab it out from under him and use it as a weapon if need be.

Stiles suddenly noticed a small, animatronic device making its way down the passageway toward his cell. The two young Templars seemed to have noticed it as well and were looking at it in fascination.

"What is going on?" demanded the preceptor, turning away from Stiles.

Stiles seized the opportunity, stood up, and in one smooth movement, yanked the stool out from under himself and struck the back of the preceptors head with it.

There was a loud crunching noise and Stiles grimaced.

"Sorry about that," he said as he leapt over the fallen form.

The two guards leapt to their feet, but before they had a chance to lock the door to Stiles's cell, the small device scuttled directly at them.

Stiles, still brandishing the stool, charged out into the hall.

* * *

The President had been neither as impressed nor as shocked as Laura expected upon hearing the term fur vitate insoubilis.

"A what?"

"A thief of immortality."

"Well, unpleasant as that sounds, the government won't tolerate vampires trying to kill its shah, because of some child. You must put a stop to it."

"Me?" Laura was flustered. Argent almost took a moment to savor it. It was such a rare occurrence.

"Of course. We require a new potentate. You are hereby granted the position. You are a vampire and a rove, so you possess the necessary qualifications."

"I beg to differ, sir. It must be put to a hive vote."

"You think they will not approve?"

"I have many enemies."

"Then you should be in good company, potentate. So does the rest of the current Council. I shall expect to see you at Thursday's meeting."

With that, the President swept out of the room, two men in black suits trailing behind.

Argent turned to Laura. "The vampires aren't going to care if the child is yours if he is being raised by werewolves."

Laura nodded. "I know. Do you see how difficult it is going to be to keep everyone from trying to kill him _and_ Stiles!"

"Well," Argent gave a sudden grin, "I may have a solution. Derek and Stiles may not like it, but I think you, Laura, and Scott, might find it acceptable."

Laura smiled back, showing off her deadly fangs.

"Why, Chris, _darling_, do speak further."

* * *

The Templars did not seem to know what to do with the small metal creature. It didn't seem to be attacking, but just moving quickly, so they kept watching it. They were surprised by it and were torn between squashing it and handling the now-free Stiles. Finally one of them sliced through it with a sword.

The Templar then whirled to face Stiles.

He raised his stool.

Behind them, in the cell, the preceptor groaned. "What is going on?"

At which point, they all heard the growl. It was the kind of growl Stiles was definitely familiar with – low and full of intention. It was the kind of growl that said, clearly as anything, "You are food."

Of course, Stiles's traitorous heart hoped for a certain black coat. He craned his neck over his brandished stool to see if the growling, slavering beast charging down the hallway would have red eyes and a familiar face.

But the creature that bounded into view was pure white. He launched himself at the Templars without apparent care for the naked blade, which Stiles was sure was silver. Stiles grabbed his stool more firmly and bashed the other Templar over the head. He was getting rather good at bashing in skulls.

Now it was just the werewolf against the preceptor, who had come charging out of the cell.

Stiles figured Jackson could take care of himself and he should break for freedom while the preceptor was preoccupied. He ran right into Lydia, Finstock, and Melissa.

"Of course you've already escaped just as we've come to rescue you," said Lydia, rolling her eyes.

"Well, I'm resourceful."

Lydia tossed something at him, and Stiles caught it. "My bat!"

Finstock, he noticed, was carrying Stiles's briefcase in one hand and a gun in the other.

"Melissa! What are you doing here! Did you send that little robot thing?"

"A toy for my cat, actually. Very handy distraction, though." She laughed. "I left a message in your luggage so Lydia knew where to find me. I didn't want to miss all the fun."

"You and I clearly do not share the same definition of the word."

Melissa looked at him a moment. "Oh, Stiles, I think we might."

Stiles grinned, he couldn't help it.

"Watch out!" came Finstock's shout.

A group of Templars were coming down the passageway toward them, led by Victoria.

"I would surrender now, Mr. Stilinski."

Suddenly there was a shout from behind the Templars, and at a signal that appeared to be from the leader – the cross on his robe was bigger than the others – most whirled to confront the new threat in the rear. Only three and Victoria stood facing Stiles and his party. Much better odds.

"What-?" Stiles was mystified.

"Vampires," explained Melissa. "We knew they'd come. They've been following us."

"Which is why you waited until nightfall to rescues me?"

"Precisely." Melissa grinned.

The Templars seemed to be losing and the rest of the group turned to join the battle. Unfortunately, it was blocking their escape.

Stiles handed Melissa his bat. "Let me show you how this works and, with my particular skills, we just might be able to get through this."

Just then Jackson ran up. He was injured, but nothing serious. Most of it looked to already be healing.

Jackson lolled a tongue out and titled his head in the direction of the battle going on in front of them.

"Fine! You go first and we'll follow."

"No! You cannot go!" Suddenly Victoria yelled. They had mostly forgotten about her. She pulled a gun, but Finstock, who already had a gun out, shot her in the shoulder and she crumpled.

They proceeded. Stiles felt it almost anticlimactic.

While the werewolf cleared a path via eating his way through the fighters, Stiles tried to touch any and all that he could. The vampires were changed by his touch and the Templars repulsed. Either way, he had the advantage.

Melissa gave up trying to use the special features on the bat and just swung it at people. Any vampire no longer in contact with Stiles took especially heavy blows, as the carvings on it flared up and burnt their skin. Stiles really needed to ask what those were about.

They finally reached a staircase and tumbled out into the night. They had each received a few injuries, but nothing serious or even debilitating.

Jackson's body began the strange, uncomfortable-looking writing that led to the sound of flesh and bone re-forming itself. Then he rose before them, naked, but human. Finstock handed him a coat which just barely reached low enough.

"Well, Jackson, I guess I should thank you for the timely intervention. I'm confused though. Shouldn't you be off killing things?"

"I thought that is what I just did."

"I meant officially. In the military."

"Ah, no. Deployment was delayed. Technical difficulties."

"Oh?"

"Yes, it was technically difficult to leave a heartbroken Alpha. And it is a good thing for you I wasn't. Someone had to extract you from the Templars." He entirely ignored the rest of Stiles's rescue party.

"I could have managed perfectly well on my own, but thank you anyway."

"You're welcome."

"So why _have_ you been tracking me this entire time?"

"You knew it was me?"

"There aren't that many white wolves roaming around trying to protect me. So?"

A new voice came from behind them. "Because I sent him."

Finstock and Lydia turned to face the threat. Melissa grabbed Stiles's bat again. Only Jackson remained unperturbed.

Derek Hale stepped out of the shadows.

"You! You are _late_!" Stiles yelled with extreme annoyance.


	19. Chapter 19

I've been pretty busy while posting this story. I've traveled a lot. I went to the ER. I had finals. Somewhere around Chapter 16 I graduated with a doctorate. It's been a ride. But that meant I've been to busy to thank you all for the feedback. I just want to let you know that they were never overlooked. Those are what kept me going and kept me finishing this up, even when I had a million other things going on. Thank you so much!

Be on the lookout - or subscribe to the series for updates - for part 4 "Ignescent", coming soon!

* * *

"Late! Of course I'm late. You do realize I've been hunting all over Italy for you? You haven't exactly been easy to find."

"Well, of course you wouldn't find me if you took that tactic. I haven't _been_ all over Italy. I've been stuck with the Templars the entire time. I was even trapped in a dungeon, thanks to you!"

"Thanks to me? How could that have possibly been my fault?" Derek came forward and loomed over his husband, both of them having entirely forgotten about their companions, who formed a semicircle of rapt interest. Their voices carried through the vacant streets – no doubt providing entertainment to others out in the night.

"You kicked me out!" Even as he screamed it, Stiles experienced once more a glorious sense of relief. Derek had come back. Of course, he was still pissed.

Finstock tried to interject. "Stiles! Shut up! We're not out of danger yet."

"You almost attacked me!" Stiles hissed, low and fierce.

"No, I didn't – that is, not really. I didn't intend it that way. I'd never hurt you. _Ever_. You should have known I didn't mean it. You should have known I needed time to recover from being an idiot."

"Oh, really? How was I to know being a dumbass was only temporary, especially in your case? It never has been before! Besides, vampires were trying to kidnap me and kill that kid – which, by the way, despite being mine, I _have_ figured out how and it does not include a period of time in which I cheated on you. I never cheated on you, you asshole!"

"Didn't they try to kidnap you here as well as back home? At least I was sober enough to send Jackson."

"Oh, like that… Wait, did you say sober enough? You mean while I've been running across Europe from drones and vampires and trying to find a safe house for a _son_ I didn't even know I had, you were _drunk_?"

"I was depressed." Derek did look somewhat guilty at this.

"You were depressed? _You_?" Stiles actually started to sputter, he was so angry. "_You_ are an unfeeling traitorous, mistrusting, rude, asshole." With the last word, Stiles punched him as hard as he could. Although the touch made him mortal, Derek didn't even flinch.

"I probably deserved that."

"_Probably_? You deserve a hell of a lot more. You kicked me out without even asking for my side of the story. You had to leap to the worst possible conclusion! And what the hell? I had to learn from _Chris Argent_ that _Laura is your SISTER_! You didn't think that maybe that was important information to share!"

Derek definitely looked guilty now. "I'm sorry. I never wanted you in danger. I just… I just lost it. I haven't lost control of my wolf since I was newly turned, but I couldn't help it. I smelled a child and it was yours and it was _hers_, but he wasn't mine. I'm sorry. I never wanted you in danger."

Stiles had never heard Derek say sorry that much at once. He was still too angry to care. "Well, you kicked me out without waiting for any kind of story and I was stuck running around without a pack!"

Derek looked around at the group assembled. "It looks like you managed to build your own pack anyway. A baseball bat battalion, maybe?"

Stiles was so shocked at how _stupid_ that sounded – it was entirely possible this was Derek's plan all along – that he didn't protest when Derek leaned forward and kiss him. It was a deep, possessive kiss and Stiles found himself leaning into the embrace unconsciously before he remembered he was still mad.

He pulled back. "I'm still mad at you. And when we're not out in the middle of Italy possibly still in danger from either vampire, Templars, or both, we're going to have a very long talk about all the ways you are going to make this up to me."

"You forgive me?"

"No. Not yet. But I might." And Stiles realized that he really was going to forgive his husband. Eventually. "First and foremost is that I am keeping my son. Whatever I have to do to protect him, I'll do. Are you willing to protect him?"

Derek looked shamefaced again. "You shouldn't even need to ask me." Before Stiles could interject, he continued. "_I_ shouldn't have given you reason to question me. I did. I'm sorry."

There it was again. Another 'sorry'. It was making it very difficult to stay mad at him.

"He's _our_ son, even if not biologically. I'd protect him with my life, just like I would you. After all, he's technically my nephew."

Stiles held up a hand. "No, no, no. We _are not_ getting into that mess of family ties right now. I _do not_ want to think about it."

Jackson interrupted them. Stiles had forgotten he was there. "We need to move on, I think." His head was cocked to the side, as though he were still in wolf form, ears alert for signs of pursuit.

Derek turned instantly from apologetic husband to Alpha werewolf. "We'll split up. Jackson, you, Lydia, and Finstock act as decoy."

"I will go with them," added Melissa.

Jackson nodded. "We'll go by land to England, and then by sea."

"And we'll get on a boat here?" Stiles asked.

Derek nodded.

"Good." Stiles grinned. "I'll have you all to myself. I still have a lot to yell at you about."

* * *

Much later and halfway out at sea, Stiles lay curled around Derek, both naked.

The second they had gotten into a room on the boat, Stiles had been all over Derek. He may be pissed, but he had just been kidnapped and held prisoner and had to fight his way through a no kidding battle between vampires and warriors of God. He needed a little reassurance he was alive, he was whole, and that Derek was there. Derek seemed to understand this, letting Stiles take control. It didn't hurt that they'd been away from each other for quite a long time. They _never_ went this long without sex. Werewolves were physical creatures and Stiles was, well, _Stiles_. There was a reason their room back at Newark had the most soundproofing.

Stiles looked up at Derek, one leg entwined between both of Derek's.

"You know, I love you. You're my husband and I'll always love you. Obviously."

Derek turned to face Stiles better. "I hear a 'but' coming on."

Stiles's expression, despite his state of dress – or lack thereof – was serious. "_But _I am still angry and I'm hurt. We still have a lot to get through and talk about. It's going to take me some time to get over this. It doesn't just magically go away because you came to Italy to rescue me and you sent Jackson to protect me."

Derek nodded solemnly, but didn't speak.

"You almost attacked me. And a _child_. I know you said you were out of control and I know you said you wouldn't have actually hurt either of us and I understand this all intellectually. But I have _never_ been scared that you'd hurt me before and I was that night. I can forgive the kicking me out part. I probably would have done the same if you randomly had a child dropped off on the doorstep with no other explanation. But it's going to take me some time to trust you again."

"Do you want to move out?"

"What?" Stiles sat up at this. "No. God no. I'm never going to learn to trust you again if I'm not around you. And I do trust you in most things. Like I said, you're my husband. I love you. I trust you to protect me and to protect my new son and to protect your pack. I trust that you're a good person. I trust that you truly are sorry. And I trust that you're a bastard and I'm an asshole and that we're going to fight. I _know_ all that is going to happen. That's what it means to be married. I just have to trust that you're never going to freak out on me again."

Derek nodded again. "I'm sorry."

Stiles groaned and flopped down, sprawled out over Derek. "You have got to stop apologizing. You look pitiful, dude. I don't think I've heard you say sorry this much, well, _ever_."

Derek grinned slightly. "Don't call me 'dude'."

Stiles squirmed. "I'll call you whatever the hell I want to." He felt something poking at his leg.

"Seriously? Already?"

Derek shrugged his shoulders vaguely. "Werewolf."

"You're mortal right now. I've been plastered all over you this whole time," Stiles retorted.

"Well, maybe I just have a very stimulating bed partner."

Stiles rolled his eyes. "You've been terribly cheesy since you found me in Italy. Have you been spending too much time with Erica?"

Derek shrugged again. "Haven't actually seen her much. I was pretty drunk there for awhile and then some other things happened. I'm surprised she didn't come to try and tear out my throat, though, honestly."

"Oh, right." Stiles squeaked into Derek's shoulder.

"Hmm?"

"I probably should have called her before we left. She and dad have been watching the kid. They've got him in a safe house somewhere and they've been taking shifts. They haven't let anyone, except probably Boyd, know where he is."

"I wondered what you did with him. I knew you would have made sure he was safe – whether he was yours or not – before worrying about yourself."

Derek started to look thoughtful, but Stiles grinned wickedly. "Okay, enough about Erica and _my father_ when we're naked in bed. I'm pretty sure we've set that rule before."

Derek let out a rumble of laughter, but was cut off by Stiles leaning forward and pressing their mouths together.


End file.
